“I do,” Sên persisted. “And why not? It is an Oriental faith—as every great faith has been and is—from Zoroastrianism to Christian Science—Spiritualism thrown in, if you like, and the faith of the Friends.” “Admitted. Well, I won’t pretend to think that religious difference is the principal bar. But tell me this, Sên: had your mother been living, would you have asked my cousin to be your wife?” “No,” the other answered promptly. “I would not hurt my mother or deceive her.” “Would you take an English wife to China?” “No—I’ve thought that out, and I would not—not yet at least. The time is not ripe—but it’s coming.” “I doubt it.” “I intended to live my life out in China. Even the other day, I asked her if she would let me take her there.” “You needn’t tell me what she answered. I know.” “Of course.” “She’d go like a shot and be infernally miserable after she had. The East is paradise for European women, unless they are married to Eastern men, and then it is hell.” “Precisely. And that is why I shall not go back to China.” “You always have wished to?” “Intensely. But everything is changed now. A man’s work must go on, of course——” “It should,” Snow interjected. “And I may need to make flying visits now and then—sure to, I think—but she shall not come. England shall be our home.” “That will be a sacrifice,” Sir Charles began. “Yes. But I shall be glad to make it. I intend to make them all. And they’ll not cost me much—for that matter. They can’t, for—she is all the world to me.” Charles Snow knew better than that. But he knew that Sên King-lo meant it, and he let it pass. “Have you thought of your children? Yours and hers?” “Desperately hard,” Sên answered, gravely. Snow had drawn blood at last. “It will be worse for them than for her or for you,” he urged. “It would be, in China,” Sên agreed sadly. “Damnable!” “Our children shall be English.” “Half-English,” the other reminded him, “_Eurasians!_” Sên King-lo flushed a little. His Chinese soul winced at that word. Snow had meant that it should. But he was sorry to thrust so at Sên King-lo, here in the room—Snow’s own room—where they had smoked so many “peace-pipes” and held such intimate and cordial conference. Charles Snow saw that the other’s face was troubled now, but he saw no receding. After a moment he rose and unlocked a drawer in a tall cabinet—the only Chinese thing in the room—and came back with a small oval thing in his hand. “No one but I ever has looked at it,” he said with one hand on Sên King-lo’s shoulder, “since the day it was given to me.” And he laid the miniature down at Sên’s hand. Sên King-lo saw the face of a very beautiful Chinese girl painted on the oval of ivory, and painful color crimsoned his face. “My mother,” he said huskily. For an instant his eyes were enraged. “No,” the Englishman replied quietly, going back to his chair, leaving the miniature on the smoking-table between them. “Your mother’s sister. Her milk-name was ‘Lotus.’ ”