Nothing more had been said of the personality of the expected visitor.  Desire did not ask, because she felt sure that, when she had seen, she would know without asking.  At present there was little enough to go upon.  The guest’s name was Mary.  Her hair was yellow.  She had visited in Bainbridge before.  She and Benis had been friends.  Beyond this there was nothing save the professor’s carelessness with the family Spode—­an annoying device for diverting attention in moments of embarrassment.

Against this circumstantial evidence there was the common-sense argument that the real Mary of the professor’s romance would hardly be likely, under the circumstances, to propose herself as his aunt’s guest.

Desire was inclined to take the common-sense view.  Especially as just about this time she came upon the track of another Mary, also with yellow hair, who presented possibilities.  The most suspicious thing about this second Mary was that neither the professor nor his friend Dr. Rogers had been able to tell Desire her first name.  Now in Bainbridge everyone knows the first name of everyone else.  One does not use it, necessarily, but one knows it.  So that when Desire, having one day noticed a gleam of particularly golden hair, asked innocently to “whom it might belong” and was met by a plain surname prefixed merely by “Miss,” she became instantly curious.  From other sources she learned that the golden-haired Miss Watkins had been employed as a nurse in Dr. Rogers’ office for several months and that her Christian name was Mary Sophia.

This also, you will see, was not much to build upon.  But Desire felt that she must neglect nothing.  The menace of the unseen, unknown Mary was beginning seriously to disturb her peace of mind.  She determined to see the doctor’s pretty nurse at the earliest opportunity.

The comradeship between herself and Rogers had prospered amazingly.  She had liked the young doctor at first sight; had discerned in him something charmingly boylike and appealing.  And Desire had never had boy friends.  The utter frankness of her friendship was undisturbed by overmuch knowledge of her own attractions, and the possibility of less contentment on his side did not occur to her.  Feeling herself so much older, in reality, than he, she assumed with delicious naivete, the role of confidant and general adviser.  What time she could spare from Benis and the great Book she bestowed most generously upon his friend.

During the four dragging days of waiting the appearance of Miss Davis, she had found the distraction of Dr. John’s company particularly helpful.  And then, after all, Miss Davis did not arrive.  Instead, there came a note regretting a very bad cold and postponing the visit until its indefinite recovery.  The news came at the breakfast table.

“How long,” asked Desire thoughtfully, “does a bad cold usually last?”

“Not long—­if it’s just a cold,” answered Benis with some gloom.  “But,” more hopefully, “if it is tonsillitis it lasts weeks and if pneumonia sets in you have to stay indoors for months.”