“My dear Bones, why should I possibly?”

The doctor looked sulky.  Benis smiled.

“Look here, John,” he said after a reflective pause.  “Desire is as direct as a child.  If she calls you by your first name you can depend that she feels no embarrassment about it.  So why should you?  And there’s another thing.  She may not find everything quite easy in Bainbridge.  She will need your frank and unembarrassed friendship—­ as well as mine.”

“Yours?”

“Yes.  You understand the situation, don’t you?  At least as far as understanding is necessary.  And you are the only one who will understand.  So you will be of more use to her than anyone else, except me.  I am going to do my best to make her happy.  It’s my job.  I am not turning it over to you.  But there may be times when I shall fail.  There may be times when I shan’t know that she isn’t happy—­a lack of perspective or something.  If ever there comes a time like that and you know of it, don’t spare me.  I have taken the responsibility of her youth upon my shoulders and I am not going to shirk.  It will be her happiness first—­at all costs.”

“People aren’t usually made happy at all costs,” said the doctor wisely.

“They may be, if they do not know the price.”

“I see.”

“You’ll know where I stand a bit better when you’ve read a letter you’ll find waiting for you at home.  But here is the whole point of the matter—­I had to get desire away from that devilish old parent of hers.  And marriage was the only effective way.  But Desire did not want marriage.  She has never told me just why but I have seen and heard enough to know that her horror of the idea is deep seated, a spiritual nausea, an. abnormal twist which may never straighten.  I say ‘may,’ because there is a good chance the other way.  All one can do is to wait.  And in the meantime I want her to find life pleasant.  She once told me that she was a window-gazer.  I want to open all the doors.”

“Except the one door that; matters,” said Rogers gloomily.

“Nonsense!  You don’t believe that.  Life has many things to give besides the love of man and woman.”

“Has it?  You’ll know better some day—­even a cold-blooded fish like you.”

“Fish?” said Spence sorrowfully.  “And from mine own familiar friend?  Fish!”

“What will you do,” exploded the doctor, “when she wakes up and finds how you have cheated her?  When she realizes, too late, that she has sold her birthright?”

The professor rose slowly and dusted the dry grass from the knees of his knickers.  “Tut, tut!” he said, “the subject excites you.  Let us talk about me for a change.  Observe me carefully, John, and tell me what you think of me.  Only not in marine language.  Am I an Apollo?  Or a Greek god?  Or even a movie star of the third magnitude?  Or am I, not to put too fine a point on it, as homely as a hedge fence?”

“Oh, hang it, Benis, stop your fooling.”