“Are you really lazy?” she asked, “Or are you just pretending to be?”

“I am really lazy.  All truly gifted people are.  You know what Wilde says, ’Real industry is simply the refuge of people who have nothing to do.’”

The prompt, “Who is Wilde?” of the secretary did not disconcert him.  He had discovered that her ignorance was as unusual as her knowledge.

“Who is Wilde?  Oh, just a little bit of English literature.  Christian name of Oscar.  You’ll come across him when you go shopping.”

A faint pucker appeared between the secretary’s eye-brows.

“You are coming shopping, aren’t you?” asked Spence, faintly stressing the verb.

“I—­want to.”

“That’s settled then.”

The pucker grew more pronounced.  The secretary resigned all hope of dictation and laid down her pencil.

“Tomorrow,” reminded Spence gently, “is Friday.”

“Yes, I know.  And if I go, do I—­we—­go tomorrow?”

“It would be advisable.”

“The time doesn’t matter,” mused Desire.  “But—­do you mind if I speak quite plainly?”

“Not at all.  You have hardened me to plain speaking.”

“I have been thinking over what you told me.  It does make a difference.  I see that I need not be afraid of—­of what I was afraid of.  It’s as if—­as if we had both had the measles.”

“You can take—­” began Spence, but stopped him-self.  It would never do to remind her that one may take the measles twice.

“Of course you won’t believe it, not for a long time anyway,” she went on in the tone of an indulgent grand-mother, “but love is only an episode.  You are fortunate to be well over it.”

Spence sighed.  He hadn’t intended to sigh.  It just happened.  Fortunately it was the correct thing.

“I don’t want to distress you,” kindly, “but we were rather vague the other night.  I understood the main fact, but that is about all.  You didn’t tell me what happened after.”

The professor’s chair, which had been tilted negligently back, came down with a thud.

“After?” he murmured meekly.  “After—?”

“I mean,” prompted Desire gently, “did she marry the other man?”

“The other man?  I—­I don’t know.”  The professor was willing to be truthful while he could.  But instantly he saw that it wouldn’t do.

“You—­don’t—­know?” If ever incredulity breathed in any voice it breathed in hers.  It gave our weak-kneed liar the brace that he needed.

“No,” he said sadly, “they were to have been married—­I have never heard.”

“Oh!  Then, of course, she did not live in your home town.”

“Didn’t she?” asked Spence, momentarily off guard.  “Oh, I see what you mean—­no, naturally not.”

“I thought that perhaps you might have been boy and girl together,” dreamily.  “It so often happens.”

“It does,” said Spence.  “But it didn’t.”