“Well,” somewhat gloomily, “this one seemed to go over all right.  It went much farther than I ever expected.  It’s far too up-and-coming.  The way it grows frightens me.  At first there was nothing—­just an ‘experience.’  A mild abstraction, buried in the past, a sentimental ‘has-been’ without form or substance.  Then, without warning, the experience acquired a name, and then a history and then, just when I had begun to forget about it, hair suddenly popped up, yellow hair, and, the day after, eyes—­blue eyes, misty.  The nose remains indeterminate, but noses often do.  Only yesterday I felt compelled to add a mouth.  Small and red, I made it—­ugh!  How I hate a small red mouth.  Oh, if it amuses you—­all right!”

“Laugh at it yourself, old man!  It’s all you can do.  But what a frightful list of blunders.  If you had to tell a lie why didn’t you take Mark Twain’s advice and tell a good one?  The name, for instance—­why on earth did you choose ‘Mary?’ Even ‘Marion’ would have been safer.  Don’t you know you can’t turn a corner in Bain-bridge or anywhere else without stumbling over a Mary?  There’s a Mary in my office at the present minute and—­yes, by Jove, she has golden hair!”

The professor looked stubborn.

“My Mary’s hair was not golden.  It was yellow, plain yellow.  I remember I made a point of that.”

“Well then, there’s Mary Davis.  You remember her?”

“The one who visited Aunt Caroline?”

“Yes.  Pretty girl.  About your own age!  ’Twas thought in Bainbridge that her thoughts turned youward.  Her hair was yellow then, and may be again by now.  And she had blue eyes, bright blue.”

“My Mary’s were not bright blue.  Hers were misty, like the hills.”

“Forget it, old man!  You’ll find you won’t be able to insist on shades.  Any Mary with golden, yellow, tawny or tow-colored hair, and old blue, grey blue, Alice blue or plain blue eyes will come under Mrs. Spence’s reflective observation.  Your progress will be a regular charge of the light brigade with Marys on all sides.”

“Now you’re making yourself unpleasant,” said the professor.  “And, to change the subject, why do you insist upon calling Desire ’Mrs. Spence?’ She calls you John.”

To his questioner’s infinite amazement the doctor blushed.

“She has told me I might,” he admitted.  “But it seemed so dashed cheeky.”

“Why?  You are at least ten years older than she.  And a friend of the family.”

“Ten years is nothing,” said the doctor.  “And I want to be her friend, not a friend of the family.  Besides, she, herself, is not at all like the girls of twenty whom one usually meets.”

“She is simpler, perhaps.”

“In manner, but not in character.  There is a distance, a poise, a—­ surely you feel what I mean.”

“Imagination, John.  It is you who create the distance by clinging to formality.”

“All right.  You’re sure you don’t object?”