w or heard. When I was smaller there was always someone--some
'housekeeper.' They were all kinds. None of them ever stayed long.
Looking back, it seems as if they passed like lurid shadows. Only one
of them seemed a real person. The others were husks. Her name was Lily.
She was very stout, her face was red and her voice loud. But there was
something real about Lily. And she was fond of children. She liked me.
She went out of her lazy way to teach me wisdom--oh, yes, it was
wisdom," in answer to Spence's horrified exclamation, "hard, sordid
wisdom, the only wisdom which would have helped me through the back
alleys of those days. I am unspeakably grateful to Lily. She spared me
much, and once she saved me--I can't tell you about that," she finished
simply.

Spence bit his lip on a word to which the expression of his face gave
force and meaning. But Desire was not looking at him.

"Do you see why I am different from other girls?" She asked gravely.

The professor restrained himself. "I see that you are different," he
said. "I don't care why. But I'm glad that you have told me what you
have. It explains something that has bothered me--" he paused seeking
words. But she caught up his thought with lightning intuition.

"You mean it explains why marriage isn't beautiful to me, like it may
be to a sheltered girl? Yes. I wanted you to see that. It may be holy,
but it isn't holy to me. I want to live my life apart from all that. To
me it is smirched and sodden and hateful. And now, do you still wish me
to come and be your secretary?"

"Now more than ever," said Spence. It was only the sealing of a
business transaction. But greatly to his annoyance he could not
entirely control a certain warmth and eagerness.

Desire held out a frank hand.

"Then I will marry you when you are ready," she said.

CHAPTER XI

Being a delayed letter from Dr. John Rogers to his friend and patient,
Benis Hamilton Spence.

DEAR Idiot: I knew you would get it--and you got it. Perhaps after this
you will learn to treat your sciatic nerve with proper respect. But
there is a worse complaint than sciatica. It lasts longer. Certain
symptoms of it are indicated in the things which your letter leaves
unsaid. Beans, old thing, you alarm me.

Now here is a sporting offer. If you'll drop it and come home at once
I'll promise never to tell Aunt Caroline. Come the moment you can put
foot to the ground. And, until then, I recommend strict seclusion