“I am going with you, Lo,” she told him quietly.
“No,” he said, a little tensely, “not this time. I can’t take you to China now, heart of my heart.”
“Why?”
“The time isn’t ripe. You wouldn’t be comfortable.”
“I should be with you.”
Sên King-lo thanked her with his eyes and with the touch of his hands. They were lovers still, these two who had ventured the perilous marriage.
But he persisted, “I cannot take you, dear. I’d rather give it up than do that.”
“You want to go, don’t you?” she asked quietly. “And you think that you ought?”
“I know that I ought. And I want to go more than I could tell you.”
“But not to have me with you?”