“She hasn't said yes. That would be absurd, of course--so soon.” He was so pitifully putting up a brave front. “But she does like me. And it's something that she hasn't said no. Isn't it something?” That was hardly a question; it was nearer assertion--what he had to think. Doane managed to incline his head. “But never mind that. God knows why I should bother you with it. You've been so kind--such a friend. We--are friends, aren't we?” Doane felt himself obliged to turn and meet his eyes. And such eyes! Ablaze with nervous light. And then he had to grip another hand--this one young, moist, strong. But he managed that, too. “Listen! I do bother you awfully, but--I've been thinking--here we are, you know. God knows when I'll find a man who could help me as you can. And we brought all those wonderful old paintings aboard here. I've been thinking--well, since I've got so much to learn of Chinese culture, why not begin? Couldn't I--would they mind if I looked at some of the pictures? And--if it isn't asking too much--you could tell me why they're good. Just begin to give me something to go by. Isn't it as good a way to make the break as any?” It was a most acceptable diversion. Doane, though several boxes of the paintings were in his own rooms, sent a servant to ask a permission that was cordially granted. And as there was a wind blowing, they went below, and talked there in low voices in order not to disturb the sleeping girl, while the elder man carefully opened a box and got out a number of the long scrolls that were wound on rods of ivory, handling them with reverent fingers. He chose one from the brush of that Chao Meng-fu who flourished under the earliest Mongol or Yuan rulers, a roll perhaps fourteen or fifteen inches in width, and in length, judging from the thickness, as many feet, tied around with silk cords and fastened with tags of carven jade. The painting itself, naturally, was on silk, which in turn was pasted on thick, dark-toned paper, made of bamboo pulp, with borders of brocade. The projecting ends of the ivory rollers, like the tags, were carved. At the edge of the scroll were, besides the seal signature of the artist, and the date--in our chronology, A. D. 1308--many other signatures in the conventional square seal characters of royal and other collectors who had possessed the painting, with also, a few pithy, appreciative epigrams from eminent critics of various periods. On that one margin was stamped the authentic history of the particular bit of silk, paper and pigment during its life of six full centuries; for no hand could have forged those seals.