" But, of late, he had not felt so sure about
it. He did not, in fact, feel quite so sure about any-thing.
Desire was changing. He had expected her to change, but the rapidity
of it was somewhat breath-taking. In appearance she had become
noticeably younger. The firm line of her lips had taken on softer
curves; the warm white of her skin was bloomy like a healthy child's;
shadow after shadow had lifted from her deep grey eyes. But it was
in her manner that the most significant difference lay. Spence
sometimes wondered if he had dreamed the silent Desire of the
mountain cottage. That Desire had stood coldly alone; had listened
and weighed and gone her own way with the hard confidence of too
early maturity. This Desire listened and weighed still, but her
confidence was often now replaced by questioning. In this new and
more normal world, her unserved, unsatisfied youth was breaking
through.
But, if she were younger, she was certainly not more simple. If the
grey eyes were less shadowed, they were no less inscrutable. If the
lips were softer, their serenity was as baffling as their sternness
had been. If she seemed more plastic she was not less illusive.
Nimble as were his mental processes, the professor was discomfited
to find that hers were still more nimble.
Meanwhile the Book was getting on. No excursions into the land of
youth were allowed to interfere with Desire's idea of her
secretarial duties. If anyone shirked, it was the author; if anyone
wanted holidays it was he.
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