"But—"
"Oh, I was a fool, too. I admit it. I thought you were fretting about John. Fancy your fretting about dear old Bones! I thought—oh well, it seems silly enough now. But the day I found you crying over his photo-graph—"
"Her photograph," interposed Desire shakily.
"Eh?"
"It was Mary's photograph. I found it on your desk."
"It was John's, when I saw it."
"Yes—but you didn't see it soon enough."
"Oh—you young deceiver! But once you went to John's office and came away smiling."
"Why not? I went to find Mary. And I didn't find her. When the real Mary came—"
"There is no real Mary."