“What about my brother in the Detention Pen?” dryly inquired Mr. Spring Fragrance. “Now, you’ve got me,” said the young man, rubbing his head. “Well, that is a shame—‘a beastly shame,’ as the Englishman says. But understand, old fellow, we that are real Americans are up against that—even more than you. It is against our principles.” “I offer the real Americans my consolations that they should be compelled to do that which is against their principles.” “Oh, well, it will all come right some day. We’re not a bad sort, you know. Think of the indemnity money returned to the Dragon by Uncle Sam.” Mr. Spring Fragrance puffed his pipe in silence for some moments. More than politics was troubling his mind. At last he spoke. “Love,” said he, slowly and distinctly, “comes before the wedding in this country, does it not?” “Yes, certainly.” Young Carman knew Mr. Spring Fragrance well enough to receive with calmness his most astounding queries. “Presuming,” continued Mr. Spring Fragrance—“presuming that some friend of your father’s, living—presuming—in England—has a daughter that he arranges with your father to be your wife. Presuming that you have never seen that daughter, but that you marry her, knowing her not. Presuming that she marries you, knowing you not.—After she marries you and knows you, will that woman love you?” “Emphatically, no,” answered the young man. “That is the way it would be in America—that the woman who marries the man like that—would not love him?” “Yes, that is the way it would be in America. Love, in this country, must be free, or it is not love at all.” “In China, it is different!” mused Mr. Spring Fragrance. “Oh, yes, I have no doubt that in China it is different.” “But the love is in the heart all the same,” went on Mr. Spring Fragrance. “Yes, all the same. Everybody falls in love some time or another. Some”—pensively—“many times.” Mr. Spring Fragrance arose. “I must go down town,” said he. As he walked down the street he recalled the remark of a business acquaintance who had met his wife and had had some conversation with her: “She is just like an American woman.” He had felt somewhat flattered when this remark had been made. He looked upon it as a compliment to his wife’s cleverness; but it rankled in his mind as he entered the telegraph office. If his wife was becoming as an American woman, would it not be possible for her to love as an American woman—a man to whom she was not married? There also floated in his memory the verse which his wife had quoted to the daughter of Chin Yuen. When the telegraph clerk handed him a blank, he wrote this message: “Remain as you wish, but remember that ‘’Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.’”