Only a few months separated Desire from her old life in the mountain cottage and already the mental and spiritual separation seemed infinite.  But was it?  Was there any real separation at all?  That ghost of herself, which she had left behind on the moonlit beach, was it not still as much herself as ever it had been?  Behind the shrouding veil of the present might not the old life still live, and the old Self wander, fixed and changeless?  It was a fantastic idea of Desire’s that the girl she had been was still where she had left her, working about the log-walled rooms, or wandering alone by the shining water.  This Self knew no other life, would never know it—­ had no lot or part in the new life of the new desire.  Yet in its background she was always there, a figure of fate, waiting.  Through the pleasant, busy days Desire forgot her—­almost.  But never was she quite free from the pull of that unsevered bond.

Until today there had been no actual word from the discarded past.  Dr. Farr had not replied to Desire’s brief announcement of her marriage.  She had not expected that he would.  And for the rest, Spence had arranged with Li Ho for news of anything which might concern the old man’s welfare.

“Here is the letter,” said Benis, breaking in upon her musing.  “You will see that, if the clear expression of thought constitutes good English, Li Ho’s English is excellent.”

He handed her a single sheet of blue note paper, beautiful with a narrow purple border and the very last word in “chaste and distinctive” stationery.

“Honorable Spence and Respected Sir”—­wrote Li Ho—­“I address husband as is propriety but include to Missy wishes of much happiness.  Honorable Boss and father is as per accustomed but no different.  Admirable Sami child also of strong appetite when last observed. departure of Missy is well to remain so.  Moon-devil not say when, but arrive spontaneous.  This insignificant advise from worthless personage Li Ho.”

Desire handed back the letter with a hand that was not quite steady.  The professor frowned.  He had hoped that she was beginning to forget.  But, with one so unused to self-revelation as Desire, it had been difficult to tell.  He had thought it unwise to question and he had never pressed any comparison between her life as it was and as it had been.  Better, he thought, to let all the old memories die.  They were, he fancied, not very tellable memories, being compounded not so much of word and deed as of those more subtle things without voice or being which are no less terribly, evilly, real and whose mark remains longest upon the soul.  Even complete understanding would not help him to rub out these markings.  Only that slow over-growing of life, which we call forgetfulness, could do that.  She was so young, there was still an infinite impulse of growth within her and in the new growth old scars might pass away.