“They would not understand.”
“Why?”
He made no answer, and after a little she questioned on, “They would not like to know that you are happy?”
“Of course they would, but——”
“And that it is I that make you happy?” the light young voice pestered on wistfully.
The Englishman shifted uneasily on his seat. “Oh, no! nothing of that sort, to them, Nang Ping,” he said petulantly. “Don’t try to understand. Just leave it all to me.”
“But,” the girl persisted, “do they not understand love?” She put her arms about him.
“Oh! well,” he parried, “you see, they are English—very English.”
“But they are women.” The Chinese girl shook her head, smiling unconvinced, and all its jeweled filigree twinkled and winked in the opalescent half light. “They are women. All women understand love, even before the man comes to teach them. We are born so. Your honorable mother and the honorable Hilda, they understand; Nang Ping is sure they do, the wise and virtuous ladies.”
“Not—not altogether. You see, things are different with us. Secret love is not looked upon like—like married love.”