“Go on,” he urged, with a large, ironic gesture matching the boisterous irony of his tone. “Say anything you like. Only, don’t keep me in suspense.” “Have you had your breakfast?” she asked solicitously. “I take only coffee. I had it.” “But that’s not enough for such a long morning as you have,” protested she. “Isn’t it? All right. I’ll eat whatever you say--eat till you tell me to stop.” “It really isn’t enough,” said she, refusing to relax her seriousness. “But, to go on--now that it’s settled that we love each other--the question is: What shall we do about it?” “Yes,” said he, nodding his head in solemn mockery. “That’s it. What shall be done about it?” “How queer your voice is, Chang,” observed she, with a look of gentle, innocent worriment. “What’s the matter?” “I had only coffee,” said he. “You mustn’t do that again.... Have you any suggestion to make?” “None. Have you?” “Chang!” she said reproachfully. “You have a suggestion.” “Have I? What is it?” “The only possible suggestion. You know very well that the only sensible thing to do is to get married.” “I’m dreaming,” jeered he. “Yes, I’m dreaming.” “You’re laughing at me, Chang!” “Am I?” “Oh, I don’t care. I’m so happy! The only thing that stands in the way is father.” “Oh, father! Yes; there is father!” And he nodded ironically, repeating: “Father--there’s father.” “But I’ll soon bring him round,” cried she. “His will’s very strong, but mine’s much stronger.” “I believe that!” said he with energy. “You’ve got the strongest will we’ve had since Joshua ordered the sun to stand still and the sun did it.” “You’re laughing at me again!” reproached she with an injured air. “No, no! How could I?” protested he. “But suppose father refuses his consent. What then?” “But he won’t,” she said with an emphatic little nod. “But he might. He doesn’t know me as well and love me as dearly as his daughter does.” “Chang, I feel as if you were laughing at me!” “How can you!” said he. “But let’s go back to father and stick to him. Suppose he refuses--absolutely refuses! What then?” “I hadn’t thought. It’s so unlikely.” “Well--think now. You’d give up your romantic dream, wouldn’t you?” She beamed, happy, confident. “Oh, that won’t happen. He’s sure to consent.” “He’s sure _not_ to consent,” said Roger, dropping his irony. “What then?” She was silent. Her face slowly paled. A drawn look came round her eyes and mouth. He laughed--a sarcastic laugh--a sincere sound that indicated to her acute ears an end of the irony she had been pretending not to suspect. She glanced up quickly. Her eyes fell before his. “You see,” said he, a little disdain in his jocose mockery, “I’ve shown you your own true self. Now, you will be sensible. Go back to your Peter and let the poor artist alone.” He rose, came to her, held out his hand. “Good-by, Rix. I must catch my train.” She did not take his hand.