Even then no presentiment of coming trouble stirred beneath Spence's dangerous serenity. Perhaps it was because the air had made him comfortably drowsy. He merely nodded, deftly swallowing a yawn. Desire went on:
"Then love is only complete understanding?"
"Always thought it might be some trifle like that," murmured the drowsy one. "But don't ask me. How should I know? That is," rousing hastily, "I do know, of course. And it is. There's a squirrel eating your hat."
Desire changed the position of the hat. But the subject remained and she resumed it dreamily.
"Then in order that it might be quite complete, the understanding would have to be mutual. If only one loved, there would always be a lack."
"Not a doubt of it!" said Spence firmly.
"Well, then—don't you see?"
"See? See what? That squirrel's eating your hat again."
"Go away!" said Desire to the squirrel. And, when it had gone, "Don't you see?" she repeatedly gravely.
The professor always loved her gravity. And he had not seen. He was, in fact, almost asleep. "You tell me," he said, rushing upon destruction.