But Roger held his ground stubbornly. “I know it is caprice,” he said. “I’m not clean crazy with vanity, Rix. But even if you were in earnest--as much in earnest as you pretend--perhaps as you think--still, that wouldn’t change things. We can’t be anything more to each other than friends. In any other relation we’d be worse than useless to each other. You need a man of your own sort. If I tied up with any woman it’d be with one of my sort.” “I don’t understand,” said she. “It wouldn’t be worth while for you to explain--for I couldn’t understand. All I know is, we love each other.” “But marriage is a matter of temperaments. If you had less will I might compel you to go my way, to learn to like and lead my kind of life. If I had less will I might adapt myself to you--and become a comfortable, contemptible rich woman’s nonentity of a husband. But neither of us can change--so, we part.” “I’ve thought of those things,” said she, quiet and sweet and unconvinced. “I’ve gone over and over them, day and night. But--Chang, I can’t give you up.” “That is to say, you don’t care what becomes of me so long as you get your way.” She did not respond to his argumentative mood, but took refuge in woman’s impregnable citadel. “I trust my instinct--what it tells me is best for us.” “You don’t realize it,” argued he desperately, “but you count on my love for you making me weak enough to adapt myself to your kind of life.” “I count on our love’s making us both happy.” “You wish to marry me simply because you think I’m necessary to your happiness?” “Yes--Chang. You are necessary to my happiness.” “And _my_ happiness--have you thought of it?” “I love you.” “And you feel that your love ought to be enough to make me happy?” “Your love is all I need,” replied she with sad gentleness. “That’s the woman’s point of view,” cried he. “I’ll admit it’s more or less mine, too--when I’m with you or have been thinking about you till my head’s turned. But--Rix”--he was powerfully in earnest now--“while love may be all that’s necessary to make a woman happy, it isn’t so with a man. For a man, love is to life what salt is to food--not the food as it is with a woman, but the thing that gives the food savor.” He paused. But she sat silent, her gaze upon her hands folded listlessly in her lap. He went on: “You have been indulging this whim of yours without giving it a serious thought. Now, I want you to think--to help me save us from the folly your willfulness and my weakness are tempting us to commit. I want you to ask yourself: ‘What sort of life would Chang and I lead together? Would I tolerate his devotion to his work? Would I respect him if he gradually yielded to my temptings and gave up his work? Whichever way it turned out, wouldn’t I either dislike or despise him?’” “You--don’t love me,” she murmured. “I do. But I’m not so selfish as your inexperience and thoughtlessness make you.”