“I suppose it’s part of our never--_never_--wanting to do what we ought--and never, never doing it if we can help.” Roger took his hat from the floor beside his chair, got ready to rise. “If you’re determined on not going home I suppose it’s useless for me to talk. But--your father is old--much older these last few weeks, Rix. If you could make it up with him----” “Oh, but I have,” cried she. “We are better friends than ever. I don’t think we’ll ever quarrel again.” The artist showed a rather conventional kind of pleasure. “I’m sincerely glad,” said he. “I like him and I like you, and I’d have been sorry to go away feeling that you two were at outs.” “You’re not a bit natural, Chang. You don’t talk like yourself. What’s the matter?” “Probably I’ve got too much on my mind--the hurry of going so soon. That reminds me. I must say good-by. I’ve got such a lot to do.” Her face did not change, but her heart began to flutter wildly. “You and your father are friends,” proceeded he, his inward state showing only in the fact that he was absurdly repeating himself. “What I came to do is done. So I’ll go--as that was my only reason for bothering you.” She gazed mockingly at him, shaking her head. “Oh, no--Chang. That wasn’t why you came.” “I assure you it was. My only reason.” “You big, foolish Chang!” mocked she. “You don’t know your own mind. Now, do sit down. That’s better. Now--there you are, jumping up again. What _is_ the matter?” “I must be going.” “Is it really true that big men are more stupid?... No, that wasn’t why you came. You came because----” “Now, Rix,” cried he angrily--for her eyes plainly foretold what was coming. “That joke has gone far enough--too far--much too far.” “What joke?” “About your being in love with me.” “Whether or not it’s a joke that I’m in love with you, it certainly is not a joke that _you_ are in love with _me_.” He sat on the arm of his chair and smiled ironically. “Really?” said he. “Really,” declared she. “Shall I prove it to you?” He stood. “I’ve no time. It’s very pleasant dawdling here with you, but----” She ignored his hand, concentrated on his eyes. “What else have you painted besides that picture?” asked she. He blushed slightly. “I’m very slow at my work.” Her smile let him know that she was fully aware how heavily she had scored. “You came over to stay here in America,” pursued she. “Yet, you are going back--never to return, you announce. Why?... You’re not going through fear of father. No--don’t pretend. Fear isn’t in your line--fear of _men_. And you’re not going through fear of me? You could easily bar me out--make it impossible for me to annoy you.” He had seated himself again. He was listening intently. “You are going,” she went on, “through fear of yourself.” She laughed softly. “A regular panic, Chang!” she cried. “You didn’t intend to sail till next week. You are running off in the morning--by the first steamer.”