I'll send you in something to eat. As for Bainbridge--
leave that to me." . . .
How curiously does a room change with the changing mind of its
occupant. Benis Spence had known his library in many moods. It had
been a refuge; it had been a prison; it had been a place of dreams.
He had liked to fancy that something of himself stayed there--
something which met him, warm and welcoming, when he came in at the
door. He had liked to play that the room had a soul. And, after he
had brought Desire home, the idea had grown until he had seemed to
feel an actual presence in its cool seclusion. But if presence there
had been, it was gone now. The place was empty. The air hung dull
and lifeless. The chairs stood stiff against the wall, the watching
books had no greeting. Only Yorick swung and flapped in his cage,
his throat full of mutterings.
It is all very well to be a good loser. But loss is bitter. Here was
loss, stark and staring.
Spence walked over to the neatly tidied desk and there, for an
instant, the cold finger lifted from his heart. A letter was lying
on the clean blotter--she had not gone without a word, then! She had
slipped in here to say good-bye. . . . A very little is much to him
who has nothing.
The letter was brief. Only a few words written hurriedly with a
spluttering pen:
"I am going, Ben-is. I think we are both sure now. But please--
please do not pity me. Love is too big for pity. You have given me
so much, give me this one thing more--the understanding that can
believe me when I say that I, too, am glad to give.
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