“Perhaps.  But—­let me decide, Desire.”

“Shan’t!” said Desire, like a naughty child.

Fire leapt from the chill grey of his eyes.

“Very well, then—­”

He took it so quickly that Desire gasped.  Then she laughed.  She had never had anything taken from her by force since her childhood and it was an astonishing experience.  Also, she had not dreamed that Benis was so strong.  It hadn’t been at all difficult.  And this in spite of the fact that she had clung to the substituted photo-graph with convincing stubbornness.

“Well—­now you’ve got it, I hope you like it,” she said a little breathlessly.  Her eyes were sparkling.  She did not know what photo she had picked up when she dropped the real one.  ’Probably it was a picture of Aunt Caroline herself or of some dear and departed Spence.  Benis would have some difficulty in tracing the cause of the tears he had surprised.  Fortunately he could always see a joke on himself.  It would be funny . . .

But it did not seem to be funny.  Benis was not laughing.  He had gone quite grey.

“What is it, Benis?” in a startled tone.  “You see it was just a mistake?  I was crying because—­because I was sorry you were not going on with the book.  I just happened to have a photograph—­” The look in his eyes stopped her.

“Please don’t,” he said.

She took the card he held out to her, glanced at it, and choked back a spasm of hysterical laughter.  For it wasn’t a picture of Aunt Caroline, or even of a departed Spence—­it was a picture of Dr. John Rogers!

“Gracious!” said Desire.  There seemed to be nothing else to say.  “Well,” she ventured after a perplexed pause, “you can see that I couldn’t be crying over John, can’t you?”

“I can see—­no need why you should;” said Benis slowly.  “I’m afraid I have been very blind.”

The girl’s complete bewilderment at this was plain to anyone of unbiased judgment.  But Spence’s judgment was not at present unbiased.  He went on painfully.

“I owe you an apology for my very primitive method of obtaining your confidence.  But it is better that I should know—­”

“Know what?  You don’t know.  I don’t know myself.  I did not even know whose the photograph was until—­” She hesitated at the look of hurt wonder in his eyes.  “You think I am lying?” she finished angrily.

“I think you are making things unnecessarily difficult.  There is no need for you to explain—­anything.”

Desire was furious.  And helpless.  She remembered now that when he had entered the room he had certainly seen her bending over a photograph.  No wonder her statement that she did not know whose photograph it was seemed uniquely absurd.  There was only one adequate explanation.  And that explanation she wouldn’t and couldn’t make.

“Very well then,” she said loftily.  “I shall not explain.”

He did not look at her.  He had not looked at her since handing her back John’s picture.  But he had himself well in hand now.  Desire wondered if she had imagined that greyish pallor, that sudden look of a man struck down.  What possible reason had there been for such an effect anyway?  Desire could see none.