“Well—yes—if you insist on putting it that way.”
“Woman, the weak, the foolish, the clinging—that’s your ideal?” said she.
He nodded emphatically.
“Isn’t it strange,” said she absently, “that we never fall in love with our ideals?”
Roger stirred about in his chair, much embarrassed.
“I suppose it’s part of our never—never—wanting to do what we ought—and never, never doing it if we can help.”
Roger took his hat from the floor beside his chair, got ready to rise. “If you’re determined on not going home I suppose it’s useless for me to talk. But—your father is old—much older these last few weeks, Rix. If you could make it up with him——”
“Oh, but I have,” cried she. “We are better friends than ever. I don’t think we’ll ever quarrel again.”
The artist showed a rather conventional kind of pleasure. “I’m sincerely glad,” said he. “I like him and I like you, and I’d have been sorry to go away feeling that you two were at outs.”
“You’re not a bit natural, Chang. You don’t talk like yourself. What’s the matter?”