“I am not sure of anything with regard to Desire.”

“Then you ought to be.  Don’t shilly-shally, Benis.  It is a habit of yours.  All of the Spences shilly-shally.  Make certain that Desire is aware of your—­er—­affection.  Mark my words—­I have a feeling.  She is fretting over Mary.”

“I happen to know that she is not.”

Small red flags began to fly from Miss Campion’s prominent cheek-bones.

“We shall quarrel in a moment, Benis.  You are pig-headed.  Exactly as your father was, and without his common sense.  I know you think me an interfering old maid.  But I like Desire, and I won’t have her made miserable.  I want—­”

“Hush—­here she comes.”

“Ill leave you then,” in a sepulchral whisper.  “And for goodness’ sake, Benis, do something! . . .  Were you looking for me, my dear?” added Aunt Caroline innocently as Desire came slowly toward them.  “Do not try to be energetic this morning.  It is so very hot.  Sit here.  I’ll send Olive out with something cool.  I’d like you both to try the new raspberry vinegar.”

Greatly pleased with her simple stratagem the good soul bustled away.  Desire looked after her with a grateful smile.

“I believe Aunt Caroline likes me,” she said with a note of faint surprise.

“Is that very wonderful?”

“Yes.”

Benis looked at her quickly and looked away.  She was certainly paler.  She held her head as if its crown of hair were heavy.

“It does not seem wonderful to other people who also—­like you.”

Her eyes turned to him almost timidly.  It hurt him to notice that the old frank openness of glance was gone.  Good heavens! was the child afraid of him?  Did she think that he blamed her?  That he did not understand how helpless she was before her awakening womanhood?  He forgot how difficult speech was in the overpowering impulse to reassure her.

“I wish you could be happy; my dear,” he said.  “You are so young.  Can’t you be a little patient?  Can’t you be content as things are—­ for a while?”

Even Spence, blinded as he was by the bitterness of his own struggle, noticed the strangeness of her look.

“You want things to go on—­as they are?”

“Yes.  For a time.  We had better be quite sure.  We do not want a second mistake.”

“You see that there has been a mistake?”

“Can I help seeing it, Desire?”

“No, I suppose not. . . .  And when you are sure?” Her voice was very low.

“When I—­when we are both sure, I shall act.  There are ways out.  It ought not to be difficult.”

“No, quite easy, I think.  I hope it will not be long.”

His mask of reasonable acquiescence slipped a little at the wistfulness of her voice.

“Don’t speak like that!” he said sharply.  “No man is worth it.”

Desire smiled.  It was such a sure, secret little smile, that it maddened him.