Aunt Caroline looked over her spectacles.

“You sound,” she said, “as if you wish it were pneumonia.”

But in this she was, perhaps, severe.  Her nephew was really not capable of wishing pneumonia for anyone, not even a possible Nemesis by the name of Mary.  He merely felt that if such a complication should supervene he would bear the news with fortitude.  For, speaking colloquially, the professor was finding himself very much “in the air.”  Desire’s mind upon the subject of this guest in particular and of Marys in general, had become clouded to his psychological gaze.  He had thought at first that his young secretary was jealous with that harmless sex jealousy which may almost as well be described as “pique.”  But, of late, he had not felt so sure about it.  He did not, in fact, feel quite so sure about any-thing.

Desire was changing.  He had expected her to change, but the rapidity of it was somewhat breath-taking.  In appearance she had become noticeably younger.  The firm line of her lips had taken on softer curves; the warm white of her skin was bloomy like a healthy child’s; shadow after shadow had lifted from her deep grey eyes.  But it was in her manner that the most significant difference lay.  Spence sometimes wondered if he had dreamed the silent Desire of the mountain cottage.  That Desire had stood coldly alone; had listened and weighed and gone her own way with the hard confidence of too early maturity.  This Desire listened and weighed still, but her confidence was often now replaced by questioning.  In this new and more normal world, her unserved, unsatisfied youth was breaking through.

But, if she were younger, she was certainly not more simple.  If the grey eyes were less shadowed, they were no less inscrutable.  If the lips were softer, their serenity was as baffling as their sternness had been.  If she seemed more plastic she was not less illusive.  Nimble as were his mental processes, the professor was discomfited to find that hers were still more nimble.

Meanwhile the Book was getting on.  No excursions into the land of youth were allowed to interfere with Desire’s idea of her secretarial duties.  If anyone shirked, it was the author; if anyone wanted holidays it was he.  If he were lazy, Desire found ways of making progress without him; if he grumbled, she laughed.

The day set apart for the arrival of Miss Davis had been voted a holiday and the professor hoped that her non-appearance would not interfere with so pleasant an arrangement.  But Desire’s ideas were quite otherwise.  Sharply on time she descended to the library with her note-book ready.  The professor felt injured.

“Must we really?” he said.  “Yes.  I see we must.  But mind!  I know why you are doing it.  I thought of your reason in the night when I was unable to sleep from overwork.  You are hurrying to get through so that we may leave this sleepy town.  Insatiable window-gazer!  You wish to look in bigger windows.”