“But he might. He doesn’t know me as well and love me as dearly as his daughter does.”
“Chang, I feel as if you were laughing at me!”
“How can you!” said he. “But let’s go back to father and stick to him. Suppose he refuses—absolutely refuses! What then?”
“I hadn’t thought. It’s so unlikely.”
“Well—think now. You’d give up your romantic dream, wouldn’t you?”
She beamed, happy, confident. “Oh, that won’t happen. He’s sure to consent.”
“He’s sure not to consent,” said Roger, dropping his irony. “What then?”
She was silent. Her face slowly paled. A drawn look came round her eyes and mouth. He laughed—a sarcastic laugh—a sincere sound that indicated to her acute ears an end of the irony she had been pretending not to suspect. She glanced up quickly. Her eyes fell before his.
“You see,” said he, a little disdain in his jocose mockery, “I’ve shown you your own true self. Now, you will be sensible. Go back to your Peter and let the poor artist alone.” He rose, came to her, held out his hand. “Good-by, Rix. I must catch my train.”
She did not take his hand.