Certainty stands at the end of things
and human nature shrinks from endings.
Only that morning, Desire had qualified the good of her present
state by the "if" of "if I only knew." And, now that she did know,
the only unqualified thing was her sense of desolation. The most
disturbing of her speculations had been as nothing to this
relentless knowledge. Not until she had found certainty did she
realize how she had clung to hope.
She did not know that she was crying until a tear splashed hot upon
her hand. She did not hear the door open as Benis reentered the
room, but she sprang to her feet, alert and defensive, at the sound
of his voice.
"Crying?" said Benis.
It was hardly a question. He had, in fact, seen the tear. But there
was nothing in his manner to indicate more than ordinary concern.
"Certainly not," said Desire.
"My mistake. But what is it you are hiding so carefully behind you?
Mayn't I see?"
Desire thought quickly. Her denial of tears had been, she knew,
quite useless. Besides, she had heard that note of dry patience in
the professor's voice before. It came when he wanted something and
intended to get it. And he wanted now to know the cause of her
tears. Well, he would never know it--never. It was the one
impossible thing. Desire's pride flamed in her, a white fire which
would consume her utterly--if he knew.
"It is a personal matter," she said. (This was merely to gain time.)
"It is personal to me also.
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