He was passing out; Desire touched him on the arm possessingly. “I couldn’t help it,” she whispered. “We’ll have all to-morrow to ourselves. You’re not angry?” Angry! As though he’d come all the way to America to be angry. “Couldn’t ever be angry with you,” he whispered back. CHAPTER VII--LOVING DESIRE During the past two hours since he had breakfasted, he had watched the telephone as though it were a live thing--as though it were her lips which might speak to him at any moment He felt that she was there in the room with him, obstinately keeping silent. She had told him not to disturb her till eleven, but he had persuaded himself that he would hear from her long before that--at nine, perhaps; at ten, at latest. She had tried to appear offhand in arranging the appointment because another man had been present He pretended to think it rather decent of her to have let the chap down so lightly. During every minute of the last two hours, he had been expecting to hear the shrill tinkle of her summons. As he bent above his writing his heart was in his throat He kept glancing up, telling himself that his sixth sense had warned him that her voice was already asking its way across the wires. Though previous premonitions had proved unwarranted, he was confident that his latest was truly psychic. Surely a girl who knew that she was loved wouldn’t sleep away the freshness of a blue September morning! Curiosity, if nothing better, would rouse her. It didn’t often happen that a man came three thousand miles to do his courting. She’d kept him waiting so long. If she felt one-tenth part of his impatience---- He finished his letter to his mother. It was all about his voyage and the interviews of yesterday. He ought to tell her more--but how, without telling her too much? He scrawled a postscript, “By the way, yesterday I met Vashti”; then sealed the envelope. By the time an inquiry could be returned, he would know everything. He would know for certain whether Desire loved him. He pulled out his watch. A few minutes past ten! To keep his nerves quiet he made a pretense at working. He would outline the first of his series of articles. But his thoughts wandered. There was no room in his mind for anything save her. She possessed him. The birdlike inflexions of her voice piped in his memory; he could hear her laughter, the murmur of her footsteps, the rustle of her dress. The subtle fragrance of her presence was all about him. In the silence of his brain she pleaded with him, taunted him, explained her omissions of consideration. “You don’t know what things have done to me--don’t know what things have done to me.”