But security is a dangerous thing.  It tempts the fates.  Even while our strategist smiled, the girl who sat so silently beside him was wondering about that smile—­and other things.  He was much better, she reflected, if he could find his passing thoughts amusing.  Amusement at one’s own fancies is a healthy sign.  And today she had noticed, also, that his laziness was almost natural.  Perhaps it might be safe now to say what she had made up her mind should be said.  But not too abruptly.  When next she spoke it was merely to continue their previous discussion.

“Do you think people may have ‘true’ names, too?” she asked presently.  “Just ordinary people, like you and me?”

Spence nodded.  “Always noting,” he added, “that you and I are not ordinary people.”

“Then if anyone knew another’s true name, and used it, the other could not help responding?”

“Um-m.  I suppose not.”

“Perhaps that is what love is,” said Desire.

Even then no presentiment of coming trouble stirred beneath Spence’s dangerous serenity.  Perhaps it was because the air had made him comfortably drowsy.  He merely nodded, deftly swallowing a yawn.  Desire went on: 

“Then love is only complete understanding?”

“Always thought it might be some trifle like that,” murmured the drowsy one.  “But don’t ask me.  How should I know?  That is,” rousing hastily, “I do know, of course.  And it is.  There’s a squirrel eating your hat.”

Desire changed the position of the hat.  But the subject remained and she resumed it dreamily.

“Then in order that it might be quite complete, the understanding would have to be mutual.  If only one loved, there would always be a lack.”

“Not a doubt of it!” said Spence firmly.

“Well, then—­don’t you see?”

“See?  See what?  That squirrel’s eating your hat again.”

“Go away!” said Desire to the squirrel.  And, when it had gone, “Don’t you see?” she repeatedly gravely.

The professor always loved her gravity.  And he had not seen.  He was, in fact, almost asleep.  “You tell me,” he said, rushing upon destruction.

Then Desire said what she had made up her mind to say.  He never knew exactly what it was because before she actually said the word “Mary,” he was too sleepy, and afterwards he was too dazed.

Mary!  The word went through him like an electric shock.  It tingled to his criminal toes.  It whirled through his cringing brain like a pinwheel suddenly lighted.  It exploded like a bomb in the recesses of his false content.

Desire was talking about Mary!  Talking about her in that frank and unembarrassed way which he had always admired.  But good heavens! didn’t she realize that Mary was dead and buried?  No.  She evidently did not.  Far from it.  When he was able to listen intelligently once more, Desire was saying: 

“... and, to a man like you, philosophy should be such a help.  I feel you will be far, far less unhappy if you do not shut yourself up with your memories.  Do you suppose I have not noticed how nervous and worn out you have been since the night we came away?  Why have you tried to hide it?”