“I save it all for my painting.”
She laughingly put out her hand. They shook hands; he accompanied her to the door. She said: “I’d like to have a name to remember you by.” And she looked at him with candid and friendly admiration for his handsome bigness. “Not your real name. That wouldn’t be a bit romantic—and, as you see, I’m crazy about romance.” She sighed. “Probably because I never get any. Don’t laugh at me. You can’t understand my taste for candy, because with you—it’s been like keeping a confectionery shop.”
“Yes—that’s true,” said he, looking at her with a new and more personal friendliness of sympathy.
“So,” said she, with a wistful smile, “give me a name.”
He reflected. “You might call me Chang. That was my nickname at school.”
“Chang,” said she. “Chang.” She nodded approvingly. “I like it.... They called me Rix before I came out.”
“Then—good-by, Rix. Thank you for a charming hour.”
“Good-by, Chang,” she said, with a forced little smile and pain in her eyes. “Thank you for—the fire and the chocolate—and—” She hesitated.
“Don’t forget the biscuit.”
“Oh, yes. And for the biscuit.”