She startled. “How did you know?” she demanded. “Have you found out who I am?” “Certainly. You’re Rix, model to Chang.... No, I was joking. I know only what you told me yesterday--or, rather, what you enabled me to guess.” “And you approve of my marrying--that way?” “I’d hardly be guilty of the impertinence of either approving or disapproving.” “Frankness wouldn’t be impertinence--between you and me. At least, that’s the way I feel about it. Do you really approve of--of marriage for--for other reasons than love?” “Heartily.” A long silence. Then she, with an effort: “When I got back home night before last all that happened up there seemed unreal--absolutely unreal--like a dream.” “Even the biscuit and the chocolate?” “Even you,” she replied. Her tone made his wandering attention concentrate, made him glance swiftly at her. She smiled. “Don’t be alarmed,” said she. “There’s not the slightest cause.” “Sure?” inquired he jestingly. “You see, I’m not used to young girls--American girls. You talk so freely. If I weren’t an American I’d misunderstand.” “What would it matter if you did?” retorted she. “To be sure--it wouldn’t matter at all,” he admitted. “Do go on.” “If it weren’t that my knowing you--this way--would always seem unreal--not at all a part of life--I’d not dare come. Now, don’t misunderstand. That doesn’t mean I’m falling in love with you--at least, I don’t think it does.” Dreamily--“No, I don’t think so.” “Depressing,” said he, with an awkward attempt at humor. He did not like these frank personalities from his model--these alarming skirtings of the subject he wished to discuss or consider with no woman. It was interesting, refreshingly interesting, this unheard-of, direct way of dealing with a matter invariably ignored by an unmarried, marriageable girl--that is, so far as his experience went, it was ignored--but, perhaps, in the America growing up during his absence--yes, this interesting audacity was disquieting. “No--I’ve thought it out carefully, Chang,” pursued she. “I’m not afraid of falling in love with you. It’s simply that what you are--what you stand for--appeals to my other self--the self I’m soon going to wrap in a shroud and lay in a grave--forever.... Coming here is a kind of dissipation for me. But I shan’t lose control of myself.” She nodded positively, and there was a shrewd flash in her eyes. “I’ll back you up,” said he. “So you needn’t worry. Falling in love is entirely out of my line.” He saw that she had no more belief in this than the next woman would have had. For, little though he knew about women--the realities as to women, the intricacies of women--he had not failed to learn that every young or youngish woman regards herself as an expert at compelling men to love, as a certain victor whenever she cares to exert herself to win. “You have your career, I mine,” he went on. “They have nothing in common. So we needn’t waste time worrying about impossibilities.”