it. Desire perceived at once that this photograph's nose had been
artistically rounded and that its flawlessness of line and texture
owed something to retoucher's lead. But looking through and behind
all this, there was enough--oh, more than enough!

With instant disfavor, Desire noted the perfect arrangement of the
hair, the delicate slope of the shoulder, the lifted chin, the tip
of a hidden ear, the slightly mocking, but very alluring, glance of
long, fawn-like eyes.

"Another molehill," thought Desire. And, virtuously disregarding the
instinct leaping in her heart, she turned the fascinating thing face
downwards. Probably fate laughed then. For written large and in very
black ink across the back was the admirably restrained autograph,
"Benis, from Mary" . . .

Well, she knew now!

A very different person, this, from the blond Miss Watkins with her
hard blue eyes and too, too dewy lips! Here was a woman of character
and charm. A woman fully armed with all the witchery of sex. A woman
any man might love--even Benis.

Desire did not struggle against her certainty. Her acceptance of it
was as sudden as it was complete. Huddling back in her chair, with
the tell-tale photo in her hands, she felt cold. Certainty is a
chill thing. We all seek certainty but, when we get it, we shiver.
The proper place for certainty is just ahead, that we may warm our
blood in the pursuit of it. Certainty stands at the end of things
and human nature shrinks from endings.