Ivy laughed too then. But the odd inverted sound of it hurt her—“Sên Ruby”—reminding her, admonishing her, of the bar eternally set, the race-bar that decency—or was it prejudice?—set between East and West. She never could leap that bar, and she knew that he never would. “English-Chinese!”
She was glad when Sên King-lo went to the piano. (Was it tact or because he felt like playing? she wondered. It was both.) And she was still more glad when Emma came in with Sir Charles and the Duke. And as soon as she decently could she said goodnight and left them.
She was very weary as she trudged up the easy stairs—and her young soul was bitter. Other girls kept their dreams—at least for a time—but she might not keep hers for an hour—not for one heart-beat of time.
Chinese!
She lay awake a long time wishing the day would come, dreading its coming. She did not hear the front door close, but she heard Sên’s step as it passed under her window, and she smothered her ears in her pillow.
It was almost morning when at last she slept, and she dreamed of Sên King-lo’s wife—his Chinese wife and hated her. She dreamed of Sên King-lo in Chinese dress—skirts, hair, and all—and loathed herself. She mocked herself, and his eyes mocked her.
She woke to a rush of thought—the thought that her name was “Ruby” and that she was more glad of that than she ever had been of anything else. Charles called her “Ruby” almost as often as he did “Ivy.” What a pale insipid name “Ivy” was—a silly name. Why hadn’t they called her only “Ruby”?
Oh, the shame and the pain of it all! To have given her love unasked, unsought, unwanted! And to a man of a debarred race! But why? Why was it debarred? Did he know? Did he suspect it? Had she told him? She shivered down in her warm bed and closed her miserable eyes—ashamed to have even the daylight see her. How was she to face Emma and Charlie—and Sên King-lo? He must never know. Whatever he believed now, led to by her, she must convince him that he had made an absurd mistake. She would.
At breakfast Sir Charles smiled affectionately at her, glad to see her so happy and full of fun, and the Duke chuckled more than once. Marie should ask her to stay with them when the Snows came home, and if Rupert fell in love with her—who cared? Not Rupert’s father. Not he! But Emma, watching and listening, grew grave at heart, and her eyes were anxious though her lips smiled. How Charlie would hate it! Her poor Charlie! If only they’d left Ivy at home in England!
For Lady Snow knew what neither Ivy nor Sên King-lo did and had little doubt of how it would end. But she feared that in the meantime Ivy was going to be very ill. The girl was drinking too much coffee, and she was forcing herself to eat.