He watched her for a time and, in truth, she was worth it.  He looked at the colour of her cheeks, her dreamy eyes like pools of mystery, the crease in her chin (which he always wanted to kiss), the rise and fall of the pendant on her breast.  He looked until he could look no longer and then he arose and leaned over the desk.

“Mary—!” he breathed, taking her hand.

“Now, please don’t start that, Wally.  We’ll shake hands if you want to...  There!  How are you?  Now go back to your chair and be good.”

“‘Be good!’” he savagely echoed.

“Why, you want to be good; don’t you?” she asked in surprise.

“I want you to love me.  Mary; tell me you love me just a little bit; won’t you?”

“I like you a whole lot—­but when it comes to love—­the way you mean—­”

“It’s the only thing in life that’s worth a hang,” he eagerly interrupted her.  “The trouble is:  you won’t try it.  You won’t allow yourself to let go.  I was like that once—­thought it was nothing.  But after I met you—!  Oh, girl, it’s all roses and lilies—­the only thing in the world, and don’t you forget it!  Come on in and give it a try!”

“It’s not the only thing in the world,” said Mary, shaking her head.  “That’s the reason I don’t want to come in:  When a man marries, he goes right on with his life as though nothing had happened.  That shows it’s not the only thing with him.  But when a woman marries—­well, she simply surrenders her future and her independence.  It may be right that she should, too, for all I know—­but I’m going to try the other way first.  I’m going right on with my life, the same as a man does—­and see what I get by it.”

“How long are you going to try it, do you think?”

“Until I’ve found out whether love is the only thing in a woman’s life.  If I find that I can’t do anything else—­if I find that a girl can only be as bright as a man until she reaches the marrying age, and then she just naturally stands still while he just naturally goes forward—­why, then, I’ll put an advertisement in the paper ’Husband Wanted.  Mary Spencer.  Please apply.’”

“They’ll apply over my dead body.”

“You’re a dear, good boy to say it.  No, please, Wally, don’t or I shall go upstairs.  Now sit by the fire again—­that’s better—­and smoke if you want to, and let me finish these papers.”

They were for the greater part the odds and ends which accumulate in every desk.  There were receipted bills, old insurance policies, letters that had once seemed worth prizing, catalogues of things that had never been bought, prospectuses, newspaper clippings, copies of old contracts.  And yet they had an interest, too—­an interest partly historical, partly personal.

This merry letter, for instance, which Mary read and smiled over—­who was the “Jack” who had written it?  “Dead, perhaps, like dad,” thought Mary.  Yes, dead perhaps, and all his fun and drollery suddenly fallen into silence and buried with him.