The professor’s pause was hardly noticeable.  He walked on at once.  But years could not have instructed him more thoroughly than that one second.  He had received a revelation.  Like all revelations, he received it in its entirety and realized it piecemeal.  His thoughts stumbled over each other in confusion. . . .  Desire at John’s office at this unusual hour? . . .  Desire in her prettiest frock and smiling . . . smiling, and so lost in her own thoughts that she saw no one . . .  Desire . . .  John? . . .  What the devil!

Spence had a finicky dislike of strong language.  He thought it savored of weakness, yet he found himself swearing heartily as he hurried on—­meaningless swears which by their very childishness brought him back to common sense.  His step slowed, he forced himself to be reasonable.  He took a brief against his own unwarranted disturbance of mind and reduced it to argument.  There was nothing at all strange, he pointed out, in Desire having called at old Bones’ office at this, or any other, time of day (but what under heaven did she do it for?).  She might easily have forgotten to tell the doctor some-thing. (What in thunder would she have to tell him?) She might have dropped in, in passing (at that hour of the morning?) merely to ask him over for some tennis (was the dashed telephone out of order?).  Or she might have felt a trifle seedy (pshaw! her health was perfect—­idiot!).  Anyway she had a perfect right to see Dr. Rogers at any time and for any reason she might choose. (Yes, she had—­that was the devil of it!)

At this point of his argument the professor was nearly-run down by a delivery boy on a bicycle and saved himself only by a sharp collision with a telegraph pole.  This served to clear his brain somewhat.  His confusion of thought dropped away.  He began to look his revelation in the face—­

“Desire—­John?”

It was certainly possible!  Why had he never seen it before? . . .  He had been warned.  John himself had warned him—­Old John who had been so palpably “hit” when he had first seen Desire at Friendly Bay.  But he, Benis Spence, had laughed.  Honestly laughed.  No possibility of this possibility had troubled him.  He simply had not seen it.  And now—­he saw.  The thing italicised itself on his brain.

Granted that Desire might love, there was no reason on earth why she should not love John.

The conclusion seemed childishly simple and yet he had never seriously considered it.  Why?  Relentlessly he forced himself to answer why.  It was because he had believed that when Desire woke to love, if she should so wake, she would wake to love for him!  He tore this admission out of a shrinking heart and laughed at it.  It was funny, quite funny in its ridiculous conceit. . . .  But it hadn’t been conceit, it had been assurance.  Impossible to account for, and absurd as it seemed now, it was some-thing higher than vanity which had hidden in his heart that happy sense of kinship with Desire which had made John’s warning seem an emptiness of words.