“Surely you’ll shake hands,” said he gently, friendlily. “I understand. I like you for what you are, not for what you ought to be. Come, give me your hand, my friend.” She sighed, gazed up at him. “Suppose I said I’d give up everything for you. What then?” she asked. “Why, you’d be saying what isn’t true.” “Chang,” she said earnestly, “I _think_ I’d give up everything for you. But since it is you who ask me--you to whom I feel I must tell the exact truth--I had to be honest. And the honest truth is I don’t know. And any girl, in the same circumstances, would say precisely the same thing--if she weren’t lying--or just romancing.” “You are a trump, Rix!” he exclaimed. There was a look in his eyes that would have thrilled her, had she seen it. But before she turned her gaze upon him again, he had controlled his impulsive self-revelation. In his usual manner he went on: “I’m proud of your friendship. It’s always good to be reminded that there are people of the right sort on earth. But you see yourself now that I was right from the beginning. We don’t belong in the same class. We couldn’t comfortably travel the same road. We----” “Would you marry me if I gave up everything for you?” she interrupted. “No,” was the prompt reply. “Any man who did that to your sort of girl would be a fool--and worse. But don’t forget another fact, my dear. I wouldn’t marry you in any circumstances. I’m not marrying. I’m married already, as I told you before. I don’t believe in any other kind of marriage--for my kind of man. I love my freedom. And I shall keep it.” There was no mistaking the ring of those decisive words. The girl shrank a little. She began in a choked, uncertain voice: “But you said----” “Rix, my dear friend, I said nothing that contradicted what I’ve always told you--what I believe in as I believe in my work. You knew perfectly well that I was merely ironic a few minutes ago. I didn’t want to part from you with you imagining you were broken-hearted. That’s why I let you run on and on--until you came that fearful cropper. Oh, _what_ a cropper for romantic Rix!” She laughed with a partial return of her old gayety. “I do feel cheap,” said she--“dirt cheap.” “Not at all. Just human. But--really I must be going,” said he briskly. “When shall I see you again?” And she tried to speak steadily, with smiling eyes. “Let me see. I’ll be back in two or three days. In a week or ten days I’ll have that picture about done. I suppose you’d like to see it. I’ll send your mother a note, asking her to bring you. Well--good-by, Rix.” He took her hand, released it. She stood, paling and flushing and trembling. “Is that--all?” she murmured. “Won’t you--” Voice failed her.