The personal difficulty only remained. The man who loses step with his own people and his own time must submit to being rolled under and trampled on. There is no other form of loneliness so deep or so bitter. And seeing nothing above and about him but the hard under side of this hard white civilization, the unfortunate one can not hope to retain in full vigor the incentive to effort that is the magic of the creative white race. Every circumstance now seemed combined to hold him down and under. The philosophy of the East with which his spirit was saturated argued for contemplation, submission, negation (as did, for that matter, the gospel of that Jesus to whose life the peoples that called themselves Christian, in their every activity, every day, gave the lie). His only driving power, then, must come out of the white spark that was, after all, in his blood. It was only as a discordantly active white that he could help the yellow men he loved.... And the one great incentive--love, companionship, for which his strong heart hungered--had flickered before him only to die out. He must somehow, at that, prove worthy. It was to be just one more great effort in a life of prodigiously wasted effort.... He thought, as he had thought before, in bitter hours, of Gethsemane. But he knew, now, that he purposed going on. Once again he was to dedicate his vigor to a cause; but this time without the hope of youth and without love walking at his side. And then, quaintly, alluringly, the picture of Hui Fei took form before his mind's eye, as if to mock his laborious philosophy, charm it away. Like that of a boy his quick imagination wove about her bright youth, her piquant new-old worldliness, shining veils of illusion. It was, then, to be so. He was to live on, sadly, with a dream that would not die.... He bowed his head. Their play brought relief to the overwrought nerves of the two young people. After a time they settled comfortably against the rail. “You lost all your things on the steamer?” said he. “Ever'thing.” “So did I.” He smiled ruefully. “Even part of my clothes. But it doesn't matter.” “I di'n' like to lose all my pretty things.” said she. “But they're gone now. All excep' my opera cloak. An' I'm jus' a Manchu girl again. It's so strange--only yes'erday it seem' to me I was a real American. I los' my books, too--all my books.” He glanced up quickly. “You're fond of reading?” “Oh, yes. Aren' you?” “Why--no, I haven't been. The fellows and girls I've known didn't read much.” “Tha' seems funny. When you have so much. And it's so easy to read English. Chinese is ver' hard.” “What books have you read mostly?” She smiled. “Oh, I coul'n' say. So many! I've read the classics, of course--Shakespeare an' Milton and Chaucer. Chaucer is so modern--don' you think? I mean the way he makes pictures with words.” “What would you think,” said he, “if I confessed that I cut all those old fellows at school and college?”