“I’d hate to destroy any illusion that seems to give you so much happiness.”
“You couldn’t, Chang. For”—softly—“I couldn’t feel as I do toward you if I didn’t know, with that deep, deep heart knowledge, that we are—like one.”
He rose resolutely, in his eyes an expression that thrilled and frightened her. She had from time to time caught glimpses of the man of whom that was the expression, but only glimpses—when he was at work and unconscious of her presence. Now, somehow, the expression seemed to reveal this almost unknown man within the Roger she loved. However, she concealed her alarm.
“You see, I’ve proved that you do love me,” said she. “But, Chang”—solemnly—“even though you do love me and I love you, what does it amount to—except for—for misery—unless we have each other?”
He slowly dropped to the chair again. He looked at her sternly, angrily. “It’s the truth,” said he. “I do love you. It is a whim with you—a caprice—a piece of willfulness. But with me”—he drew a long breath—“I love you. The only excuse for the way you’ve acted is that you’re too young and light-hearted to know what you’re about.”
Her hands clutched each other convulsively in her lap. But she was careful to keep from her face all sign of the feeling those words inspired.
He laughed with bitter irony. “To that extent—you’ve had your way,” he went on. “Get what satisfaction you can out of it—for, while you’ve conquered my heart, you’ll not conquer my will. I am not yours to dispose of as you see fit. I can get over caring for you—and I shall.”
“But why, Chang? Why?”
For answer he smiled mockingly at her.
“In your heart of hearts you don’t believe for an instant it’s a caprice with me. You know better, Chang.” Sincerity looked from her eyes, pleaded in her voice.