How could
he, or I, have guessed that he had given up hope too soon?--and
anyway, it wasn't in the bargain that I should love him.--It just
happened.--He is desperately unhappy. Help him if you can.--Your
affectionate Desire."
"My affectionate Desire!" mocked John, still in that high, strained
voice which now was perilously near a sob. "That--that is what I was
to her, a convenient friend! You--you had it all. And let it go, for
the sake of that blond-haired, deer-eyed, fashion plate--"
"That's enough! You are not an hysterical girl. Sit down. . . . I
can't understand this, John. I thought--"
The two men looked at each other, a long look in which distrust at
least was faced and ended. The excited flush, died out of John's
cheek. He looked weary and shame-faced.
"I thought she loved you," said Spence simply.
The doctor's eyes fell. It was his honest admission that he, too,
had thought this possible.
"Even now," went on the professor haltingly, "I can-not believe . . .
it doesn't seem possible . . . me? . . . John, does the letter
mean that Desire loves me?"
John Rogers nodded, turning away.
Silence fell between them.
"What will you do--about the other?" asked the doctor presently.
"What other? There is no other. I loved Desire from the very first
night I saw her. I didn't know it, then. It was all new. And," with
a bitter smile, "so different from what one expects. Mary was never
any-thing but the figure of straw I told you of.
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