He made a faint effort to rise, gave it up, resumed the study of his hatband.
“You were going to take my picture with you,” continued she.
“Your picture?” said he with feeble irony.
“Our picture,” corrected she softly.
He waved the hat in a gesture of hopelessness.
“Then,” proceeded she, “you changed your mind and decided to leave it. But you thought you wouldn’t part with it until the last moment—to-morrow morning. Oh, Chang! Chang!”
“I found it more convenient to send it last night,” said he with a brave effort at indifference.
“Convenient?” she laughed. “I can see you storming against your weakness, as you call it. I can see you resolving to be brave—to free yourself immediately. But your scheme didn’t work. For the only result of not having the picture to say good-by to was that you had to come here and take one last look at the original.”
He laughed aloud—a forced, mirthless laugh. “Same old Rix!” exclaimed he. “Of all the conceit!”
“Isn’t it, though?” retorted she with a coquettish nod. “But it’s the truth, too—isn’t it?”