“Then—”
“No. It is plainly impossible. All life is before her. The thought has not come to her. It never will. I see now that she could not be happy with me. And I think she ought to be happy. I must ask you not to speak of this again. Let youth call unto youth. And let me be her friend.”
His excellency went below after this. Miss Hui Fei was also below, sleeping. Rocky Kane had been playing with the little princess, out on the gallery; but now, evidently watching his chance, he came forward to the informal seat the mandarin had vacated.
It was to be difficult—always difficult. The boy, plainly, couldn't live through these tense days without a confidant. Doane steeled himself to bear it, and to respond as a friend. There was no way out; would be none short of Shanghai; just an exquisite torture. It was even to grow, with each fresh contact, harder to bear. The boy was so curiously unsophisticated, so earnest and honest an egotist.
“—I've asked her,” he said now.
Doane could only wait.
“She hasn't said yes. That would be absurd, of course—so soon.” He was so pitifully putting up a brave front. “But she does like me. And it's something that she hasn't said no. Isn't it something?”
That was hardly a question; it was nearer assertion—what he had to think. Doane managed to incline his head.
“But never mind that. God knows why I should bother you with it. You've been so kind—such a friend. We—are friends, aren't we?”
Doane felt himself obliged to turn and meet his eyes. And such eyes! Ablaze with nervous light. And then he had to grip another hand—this one young, moist, strong. But he managed that, too.