TWO LETTERS
During September Alice and her father had remained Ralph's guests, extending their stay at his urgent request. James 212B 422 made a most satisfactory chaperon. If they visited one of the great historical museums he always managed to disappear in search of some exhibit, leaving the other two to sit on a bench to wait his return, which was often delayed purposely.
But to his daughter and the scientist time had become of little importance and though the engineer was sometimes gone an hour, when he returned he would find them still sitting on the bench, sometimes deep in conversation, sometimes absorbed in a silence that meant more than any words could express.
Together they were blissfully happy, apart they were wretchedly lonely.
Ralph, it appeared, had completely forgotten numerous of his lectures in which he had labeled love as "nothing but a perfumed animal instinct." No lover more abject than he now, none more humble in the presence of his divinity. During those weeks they had arrived at a mutual understanding.
All the world knew and rejoiced in their happiness. Ralph had always been extremely popular with the people. Even the Planet Governor himself had been moved to privately express his approval. Many times had the scientist worried him. Ralph had so often been restive under the restraints which must of necessity be imposed upon one so important to the Earth's progress. And now, with this new influence to hold him, the Governor felt that the task of keeping Ralph contented had been lifted from the official's already over-burdened shoulders.
All the world rejoiced—all but two, and for them the knowledge of the two lovers' happiness was gall and wormwood.