Page:Mr. Wu (IA mrwumilnlouisejo00milniala).pdf/79

 But still she would not understand. She rose and went to him, and put her little arms about him again. "No," she said with tender, caressing emphasis, "because I am happy." And then she added—for it was growing dark, something that lay warm on her heart to say—that must be said soon now, "Basil's honorable mother would like me then, if—if I gave a son to worship at the grave of thy ancestors!"

Gregory recoiled a little from the girl's gentle, clinging arms—recoiled with a startled cry: the world-old cry of man confronted for the first time with very self; the cry of man hoist at last with his own petard. But pity, too, for her, as yet so free from pity for herself, welled up in him (he was not all bad—who is?), and he controlled himself again for her sake. It was difficult, but even so it was not much to do in return for what she had done for him. And it was the only return that he could make, or would, the giving her some gentleness of treatment even in the crash of his own dismay. He came back, and caught her elbows in his hands, and held her from him so—at arm's length. "Nang Ping," he tried to say it lightly, "what amazing ideas you get into your head!"

"No," she said stoutly, "not so! Listen! All the women in China make one big prayer in the temples to the goddess Kwan-Yin"—he released her arms, letting his fall at his sides helplessly, his fingers clenched in his palms—"a prayer to her to bring them a son!"

Her lover turned away, distressed, tormented.

"Oh!" he said brokenly, "what a fool I've been!" It is almost the oldest of the man-cries, almost as old as "I love you" and "I take you for my own."

Nang Ping ran to him, crying, "Oh! how I love you, Basil! I want to fill my hands with happiness to pour