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“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.”

“That’s true,” exclaimed she with enthusiasm.