They were facing each other now, not many steps apart; and the sight of her, in such high good humor, made it simply impossible for him to remain grumpy, or to pretend that he was. She went on: “I did it this morning—instead of coming to pose for you. I hope I[56] didn’t put you out too much. I couldn’t think of any way to send you word.”

[56]

“I wasn’t there,” said he. “I can finish the picture up here.”

“Then you don’t need me any more?” inquired she. And the little hands she was stretching out to the blaze dropped pathetically to her side and up went her face to gaze into his mournfully.

“I’ve done with models in America!” said he, laughing—not in very mirthful fashion, however.

Her eyes—they were innocent to-day—remained serious. “I don’t see why you were upset by what I said,” observed she reflectively, warming her palms. “You can’t have had much experience with women or you’d not have been.”

It was a notable proof of Chang’s fundamental simplicity of character that this usually sure thrust at masculine vanity did not reach him, though he was only thirty-two. “You’re not a woman,” replied he. “You’re a girl—a child—a stray from the nursery.”

She shook her head. “No, I’m a woman. You’ve made me a woman.”

“There you go again!” cried he. “Blaming me!”

“Thanking you!” corrected she gently. “But please don’t get excited about—yesterday. How can we be friends if you begin to fuss and fume every time[57] you think of it? Really, I didn’t do anything out of the ordinary.”

[57]

He dropped into a chair and laughed heartily.

“I simply proposed to you,” said she.

“So you think it is ordinary for a girl to propose to a man—and to insist on it, in spite of his protests? Well—maybe it is—in America.”

“I don’t know,” said she reflectively. “I never did it before.”

“Really?”

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