The first thing she saw was Benis sitting on a fallen log and
waiting. He had been waiting a long time. In the flashing second
before he saw her, Desire had time to draw one long breath of
wonder. After that, there was no time for anything. The professor's
patience suddenly gave out.
He had intended to begin with an explanation. But it is a poor lover
who can't find a better beginning than that . . . And what could
Desire do, with towels in one hand and soap in the other?
When he released her at last, blushing and glowing, it was to find
the most urgent need for explanation past.
"Idiots, weren't we?" asked Benis happily.
Desire agreed. But her eyes questioned.
"There isn't any Mary, you see," he told her hastily. "Never was;
never could be. (Let me take your soap?) Mary was a figment--mortal
mind, you know. Your fault entirely."
"But--"
"Yes, I know. But I did it to please you. I am a truthful person,
really. (Let me take your towels?) And I thought you had more sense-
-Oh, Desire, darling!"
"But--"
"Oh, I was a fool, too. I admit it. I thought you were fretting
about John. Fancy your fretting about dear old Bones! I thought--oh
well, it seems silly enough now. But the day I found you crying over
his photo-graph--"
"Her photograph," interposed Desire shakily.
"Eh?"
"It was Mary's photograph. I found it on your desk."
"It was John's, when I saw it."
"Yes--but you didn't see it soon enough.
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