behind on the moonlit beach, was it not
still as much herself as ever it had been? Behind the shrouding veil of
the present might not the old life still live, and the old Self wander,
fixed and changeless? It was a fantastic idea of Desire's that the girl
she had been was still where she had left her, working about the
log-walled rooms, or wandering alone by the shining water. This Self
knew no other life, would never know it--had no lot or part in the new
life of the new Desire. Yet in its background she was always there, a
figure of fate, waiting. Through the pleasant, busy days Desire forgot
her--almost. But never was she quite free from the pull of that
unsevered bond.

Until today there had been no actual word from the discarded past. Dr.
Farr had not replied to Desire's brief announcement of her marriage.
She had not expected that he would. And for the rest, Spence had
arranged with Li Ho for news of anything which might concern the old
man's welfare.

"Here is the letter," said Benis, breaking in upon her musing. "You
will see that, if the clear expression of thought constitutes good
English, Li Ho's English is excellent."

He handed her a single sheet of blue note paper, beautiful with a
narrow purple border and the very last word in "chaste and distinctive"
stationery.

"Honorable Spence and Respected Sir"--wrote Li Ho--"I address husband
as is propriety but include to Missy wishes of much happiness.
Honorable Boss and father is as per accustomed but no different.
Admirable Sami child also of strong appetite when last observed.
Departure of Missy is well to remain so. Moon-devil not say when, but
arrive spontaneous. This insignificant advise from worthless personage
Li Ho."

Desire handed back the letter with a hand that was not quite steady.
The professor frowned. He had hoped that she was beginning to forget.
But, with one so unused to self-revelation as Desire, it had been
difficult to tell. He had thought it unwise to question and he had
never pressed any comparison between her life as it was and as it had
been. Better, he thought, to let all the old memories die. They were,
he fancied, not very tellable memories, being compounded not so much of
word and deed as of those more subtle things without voice or being
which are no less terribly, evilly, real and whose mark remains longest
upon the soul. Even complete understanding would not help him to rub
out these markings. Only that slow over-growing of