The straightforward sentences carried a painful conviction. Charles's eyes fell from his friend's face. For this crowning disappointment of hers he was distressed enough, indeed; and yet he was perfectly conscious that there was a side of him which could not lament at all. Publicly speaking, he had not honestly viewed the secretaryship as a "revenge"; since to get Mary out of the schools, by hook or crook, was the exact object in life of her adversary, Mysinger, who so earnestly held that woman's place was the Home. And then, there were those more personal and secret reactions in him, which had somehow recoiled from this development of the Career from the start. "How long have you felt this way--that you weren't going to get it?" "Oh--for two months now, at least." "Two months! Why, you've never said anything about it to me!" "Well, I don't remember your asking anything about it." "No, because I supposed it was virtually settled--" "Oh, no, indeed. In fact--oh, it was just a mad dream for me, of course! I'll live and die a Grammar School teacher." "No! I swear you'll not!" And, seeing the way cleared of all extra-complications now, the young man flung out with unwonted exuberance: "You trust _me_! You'll come back here so quickly you'll not remember you ever went!" But the male protectorship, he should have known well, scarcely thrived in this atmosphere. Mary tied a package of papers, gave him a look and smile, and dropped it efficiently into the suitcase at her feet. "Well, that's on the knees of the gods as yet. Meanwhile--there's no use crying over spilt milk." "My point is, don't you see, this milk shan't stay spilt! _I'm_ not going to wait till May to have you back here." It was on the tip of his tongue to confide to her then, for her comfort, the third plan he had for her, a plan more circuitous and elaborate than either of his others, but yet, given time, his personal favorite from the beginning. However, Mary's little laugh checked him. The laugh may have been the best cover she had for feelings deeply bruised, after all, perhaps: but the breath of it chilled the young man's ardors effectually. "I'm afraid you must, though! This milk--" "I decline. Trust me, I say. I intend to help you here." But her reply was to put into words of one syllable, at last, what her manner had been saying plainly from the beginning:-- "My dear friend, you _can't_ help me, in this." She added, quietly snapping on a light: "Don't worry your head about it any more, please. Whatever, can be done,--I can and will do it, you may be sure." It was odd how completely this silenced the young man. It was as if she had suddenly blown up the whole line of their communication.