th
her unbound hair and hands clasped childishly about her knees.

"You have wondered about me--in a psychological way--ever since you
came." She went on, her voice taking on a harsher note. "You have been
trying to 'place' me. Well, since you are curious I will tell you what
I am. When I was younger and we lived in towns I used to wander off by
myself down the main streets to gaze in the windows. I never went into
any of the stores. The things I wanted were inside and for sale--but I
could not buy them. I was just a window-gazer. That's what I am still.
Life is for sale somewhere. But I cannot buy it."

The throb of her voice was like the beating of caged wings through the
quiet room.

"But--" began Spence, and then he paused. It wasn't at all easy to know
what to say. "You are mistaken," he went on finally. "Life isn't for
sale anywhere. Life is inside, not outside. And no one ever really
wants the things they see in other people's windows."

"I do," said Desire coldly.

She was certainty very young! Spence felt suddenly indulgent.

"What, then--for instance?" he asked.

The girl shook back her hair and arose.

"Freedom, money, leisure, books, travel, people!"

"I thought you were going to leave out people altogether," said Spence,
whimsically. "But otherwise your wants are fairly comprehensive. You
have neglected only two important things--health and love."

"I have health--and I don't want love."

"Not yet--of course--" began the professor, still fatherly indulgent.
But she turned on him with a white face.

"Never!" she said. "That one thing I envy no one. You are wondering why
I have never considered marriage as a possible way out? Well, it isn't
a possible way--for me. Marriage is a hideous thing--hideous!"

She wasn't young now, that was certain. It was no child who stood there
with a face of sick distaste. The professor's mood of indulgent
maturity melted into dismay before the half-seen horror in her eyes.

But the moment of revelation passed as quickly as it had come. The
girl's face settled again into its grave placidity.

"I'll get the tea," she said. "The kettle will be boiling dry."

CHAPTER VII

In the form of a letter from Professor Spence to his friend, Dr. John
Rogers.

No letter yet from you, Bones; Bainbridge must be having the measles.
Or perhaps I am not allowing for the fact that it takes almost a
fortnight to go and come across this little bit of Empire. Also Li Ho
ha