Desire did not struggle against her certainty.  Her acceptance of it was as sudden as it was complete.  Huddling back in her chair, with the tell-tale photo in her hands, she felt cold.  Certainty is a chill thing.  We all seek certainty but, when we get it, we shiver.  The proper place for certainty is just ahead, that we may warm our blood in the pursuit of it.  Certainty stands at the end of things and human nature shrinks from endings.

Only that morning, Desire had qualified the good of her present state by the “if” of “if I only knew.”  And, now that she did know, the only unqualified thing was her sense of desolation.  The most disturbing of her speculations had been as nothing to this relentless knowledge.  Not until she had found certainty did she realize how she had clung to hope.

She did not know that she was crying until a tear splashed hot upon her hand.  She did not hear the door open as Benis reentered the room, but she sprang to her feet, alert and defensive, at the sound of his voice.

“Crying?” said Benis.

It was hardly a question.  He had, in fact, seen the tear.  But there was nothing in his manner to indicate more than ordinary concern.

“Certainly not,” said Desire.

“My mistake.  But what is it you are hiding so carefully behind you?  Mayn’t I see?”

Desire thought quickly.  Her denial of tears had been, she knew, quite useless.  Besides, she had heard that note of dry patience in the professor’s voice before.  It came when he wanted something and intended to get it.  And he wanted now to know the cause of her tears.  Well, he would never know it—­never.  It was the one impossible thing.  Desire’s pride flamed in her, a white fire which would consume her utterly—­if he knew.

“It is a personal matter,” she said. (This was merely to gain time.)

“It is personal to me also.”

“I do not wish to show it to you.”

“No.  But—­do not force me to insist.”

These two wasted but few words upon each other.  It was not necessary.  Desire took a quick step backward.  And, as she did so, the desired inspiration came.  Directly behind her stood the table on which lay Aunt Caroline’s box of photographs.  If she could, without turning, substitute one of them for the tell-tale picture in her hand—­

“You will hardly insist, I think.”  Her eyes were on him, cool and wary.  She took another step backward.  He did not follow her.  There was a faint smile on his lips but his face, she noticed with perturbation, had gone very pale.  His eyes were shining and chill, like water under grey skies.

“Please,” he said, holding out his hand.

Desire let her glance go past him.  “The door!” she murmured.  He turned to close it.  It gave her only a moment.  But a moment was all she needed.

“Surely we are making a fuss over nothing.”  With difficulty she kept a too obvious relief out of her voice.  He must not find her opposition weakened.