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It was a notable proof of Chang’s fundamental simplicity of character that this usually sure thrust at masculine vanity did not reach him, though he was only thirty-two. “You’re not a woman,” replied he. “You’re a girl—a child—a stray from the nursery.”

She shook her head. “No, I’m a woman. You’ve made me a woman.”

“There you go again!” cried he. “Blaming me!”

“Thanking you!” corrected she gently. “But please don’t get excited about—yesterday. How can we be friends if you begin to fuss and fume every time you think of it? Really, I didn’t do anything out of the ordinary.”

He dropped into a chair and laughed heartily.

“I simply proposed to you,” said she.

“So you think it is ordinary for a girl to propose to a man—and to insist on it, in spite of his protests? Well—maybe it is—in America.”

“I don’t know,” said she reflectively. “I never did it before.”

“Really?”

“No,” she answered him unsmilingly. “But I’m sure I’ll do it again—if I feel like it.”

“I wouldn’t—if I were you. The next man might misunderstand.”