She had not exactly said “Yes” yet.  He must not forget that.  But it could do no harm to feel reasonably sure that she was going to.  He did not conceal from himself that he had brought things off remarkably well.  That last argument of his had been a masterpiece of strategy.  There were other, shorter, words which might have described it.  But they were not such pleasant words.  And when a thing is necessary it is just as well to be pleasant about it.  No harm had been done.  Quite the opposite.  Desire’s one valid objection had been neatly and effectually disposed of.  And now the matter could be dropped.  It would be forgotten. . . .  What did it amount to in any case?  Other men lied every day saying they had never loved.  He had lied only once in saying that he had....  At the same time it might be very embarrassing to.... yes, certainly, the matter must be dropped!

They would, he supposed, find it necessary to elope....  No sense in looking for trouble!  The old gentleman had been odder than ever the last day or so.  He had ceased even to pretend that his guest’s presence was anything but an annoyance.  He had refused utterly to enter into any connected conversation and had been restless and erratic to a degree.  “Too muchy moon-devil,” according to Li Ho.  That very afternoon he had met them coming down from their talk upon the rocks and the ironic courtesy of his greeting had been little less than baleful.  At supper he had remarked sentimentally upon the flight of time, referring to the nearness of Friday in a way eminently calculated to speed the parting guest.

Friday, at latest, then?  If they were to go they would go on Friday.—­Friday and the full moon.

In the meantime he felt no desire for sleep.  The moon, perhaps?  Certainly there is nothing in the mere business-like prospect of engaging a permanent secretary to cause insomnia.  The professor supposed it was simply his state of health in general.  It might be a good idea to drop a line to his medical man.  He had promised to report symptoms.  Besides, it was only fair to prepare John.  The candle was burnt out, but the moon would do—­pad on knee, he began to write. . . .

“Beloved Bones—­I am writing in the hope that the thought of you may cause cerebral exhaustion.  I find the moon too stimulating.  Otherwise I rejoice to report myself recovered.  I can walk.  I can climb hills.  I can un-climb hills, which is much worse, and I eat so much that I’m ashamed to look my board money in the face.  You might gently prepare Aunt Caroline by some mention of an improved appetite.

I had a letter from Aunt Caroline yesterday.  That is to say, three letters.  When you included (by request) “positively no letter writing” in my holiday menu, you did not make it plain who it was that was positively not to write.  So, although she tells me sadly that she expects no answers, Aunt Caroline positively does.  I may say at once that I know all the news.