She drew from her sleeve a letter written on silk paper.
The young man ran his eye over the closely penciled characters.
“’Tis very much in its tenor like what my father wrote to me,” he commented.
“Not that.”
Pau Tsu indicated with the tip of her pink forefinger a paragraph which read:
Are you not ashamed to confess that you love a youth who is not yet your husband? Such disgraceful boldness will surely bring upon your head the punishment you deserve. Before twelve moons go by you will be an Autumn Fan.
The young man folded the missive and returned it to the girl, whose face was averted from his.
“Our parents,” said he, “knew not love in its springing and growing, its bud and blossom. Let us, therefore, respectfully read their angry letters, but heed them not. Shall I not love you dearer and more faithfully because you became mine at my own request and not at my father’s? And Pau Tsu, be not ashamed.”
The girl lifted radiant eyes.
“Listen,” said she. “When you, during vacation, went on that long journey to New York, to beguile the time I wrote a play. My heroine is very sad, for the one she loves is far away and she is much tormented by enemies. They would make her ashamed of her love. But this is what she replies to one cruel taunt: