e, who had
something to say, reopened the conversation without rancour.

"Don't be cross," she said. "As a matter of fact Benis does swear
sometimes. He is nervous, you know. I sometimes wonder if it is all due
to shell shock, or whether it is a result of his--er--other experience."

For the second time that day the car skidded. And for the second time,
its unfortunate driver was called upon to give it his whole attention.
Desire waited.

"I mean his former love affair," said she when conversation was again
possible.

"His--I don't know," said John weakly.

Desire looked sceptical.

"Don't fancy I want to question you," she said with haughtiness. "But I
don't see how you can help knowing. You are his doctor. And his friend,
too. He must have told you. Didn't he?"

"He mentioned something--er--that is to say--"

"Oh, don't hesitate! Don't fancy that I mind. I don't, of course. And I
am not curious. Although any-one might be curious. I won't ask you
questions. I am only mildly interested. It is entirely for his own good
that I should like to know if she is quite as wonderful as he thinks.
Is she, John?"

"I--I don't know," stammered the wretched John.

Desire nodded patiently.

"You mean you don't know how wonderful he thought her? But did you
think her very wonderful, John?"

"No, I didn't"

"You thought her plain?"

"No, I--I didn't think of her at all."

"You mean that you found her insignificant?"

The doctor made a sound which Desire was pleased to interpret as assent.

"I'm not surprised," said she earnestly. "Because, from the description
Benis gave, I felt sure he was exaggerating. Not that it makes any
difference, because, if he thought she was like that, what she really
was like didn't matter. That," with plaintive triumph, "is one of the
things I learned today."

The doctor said nothing. It was the only thing which he felt it safe to
say.

CHAPTER XXVI

The professor was smoking under the maples by the front steps when the
car drove up. He looked very cool, very comfortable and very sure of
himself--entirely too sure of himself, in John's opinion. John, who at
the moment, felt neither cool nor comfortable, and anything but sure,
observed him with envy and pity. Envy for so obvious a content, pity
for an ignorance which made content possible.

Spence, on his part, seemed unaware of a certain tenseness in the
attitude of both Desire and John, a symptom which might have suggested