Sên King-lo did not know—yet. But Ivy knew.
Almost always the woman knows first—no matter how inexperienced she is,
or how experienced he.
Ivy knew. And because she reeled a little under the shock—and all that
it meant—she blundered into words that were the last she’d have spoken,
if she and her tongue had known what they were doing.
“How odd! Your mother’s name was Ruby Sên.”
She knew what she’d said the moment she’d said it, and she flushed, face
and neck, almost as crimson as a Chinese’s bride’s veil.
Even then the man did not know—neither his secret nor hers. But the
first far-off glimmering of his own came to him then—like the
shimmering scent of distant flowers or the tremble of music a long way
away.
He saw Ivy’s confusion, the red on her face, and that her lips and hands
trembled a little. But he mistook it to be only her vexation for a _faux
pas_ that the sensitive taste of so nice a girl exaggerated out of all
proportion to the small thing it was.
“But no,” he reminded her with a light laugh, “it was not—it was Sên
Ruby.”
Ivy laughed too then. But the odd inverted sound of it hurt her—“Sên
Ruby”—reminding her, admonishing her, of the bar eternally set, the
race-bar that decency—or was it prejudice?—set between East and West.
_She_ never could leap that bar, and she knew that he never would.
“English-Chinese!”
She was glad when Sên King-lo went to the piano. (Was it tact or because
he felt like playing? she wondered. It was both.) And she was still more
glad when Emma came in with Sir Charles and the Duke. And as soon as she
decently could she said goodnight and left them.
She was very weary as she trudged up the easy stairs—and her young soul
was bitter. Other girls kept their dreams—at least for a time—but she
might not keep hers for an hour—not for one heart-beat of time.
Chinese!
She lay awake a long time wishing the day would come, dreading its
coming. She did not hear the front door close, but she heard Sên’s step
as it passed under her window, and she smothered her ears in her pillow.
It was almost morning when at last she slept, and she dreamed of Sên
King-lo’s wife—his Chinese wife and hated her. She dreamed of Sên
King-lo in Chinese dress—skirts, hair, and all—and loathed herself.
She mocked herself, and his eyes mocked her.
She woke to a rush of thought—the thought that her name was “Ruby” and
that she was more glad of that than she ever had been of anything else.
Charles called her “Ruby” almost as often as he did “Ivy.” What a pale
insipid name “Ivy” was—a silly name. Why hadn’t they called her only
“Ruby”?
Oh, the shame and the pain of it all! To have given her love unasked,
unsought, unwanted! And to a man of a debarred race! But why? Why was it
debarred? Did he know? Did he suspect it? Had she told him? She shivered
down in her warm bed and closed her miserable eyes—ashamed to have even
the daylight see her. How was she to face Emma and Charlie—_and_ Sên
King-lo? He must never know. Whatever he believed now, led to by her,
she must convince him that he had made an absurd mistake. She would.
At breakfast Sir Charles smiled affectionately at her, glad to see her
so happy and full of fun, and the Duke chuckled more than once. Marie
should ask her to stay with them when the Snows came home, and if Rupert
fell in love with her—who cared? Not Rupert’s father. Not he! But Emma,
watching and listening, grew grave at heart, and her eyes were anxious
though her lips smiled. How Charlie would hate it! Her poor Charlie! If
only they’d left Ivy at home in England!
For Lady Snow knew what neither Ivy nor Sên King-lo did and had little
doubt of how it would end. But she feared that in the meantime Ivy was
going to be very ill. The girl was drinking too much coffee, and she was
forcing herself to eat.
All day Ivy listened for a voice and a footstep. She longed not to see
Sên King-lo again. But her pride told her she must; and, more than she
wished not to face him again, she longed to do so and get it well over.
She’d carry her head high to the last. And she’d find an excuse to go
back to England after Easter. She never had promised to stay with Emma
and Charles forever. Whatever she’d do there, however she’d contrive to
live there, she did not know. But that did not matter.
Sên King-lo did not come that day. But he sent flowers in his
stead—although he had sent her some only yesterday.
Today—for the first time since he _had_ sent them—he sent her no
lilies. When Ivy opened the florist’s box it held only
roses—deep-scented, red roses the color of rubies.
Ivy tucked two or three in her belt; it would look less strange,
perhaps, to Sên, if he came, than if she did not, she thought.
She and Lady Snow lunched alone that day, and Emma wondered who had sent
those roses—but didn’t ask or look at them particularly. But at dinner
the Duke had no such scruple.
“You have changed your flowers,” he remarked. “I thought you always wore
lilies-of-the-valley.”
“Not always. A friend gives me lilies sometimes.”
“Rather often,” the Duke observed slyly.
“I bought my red roses,” Ivy continued, “and I paid dear for them.”
“Flowers are a scandalous price in winter,” the Duke agreed.
“These were!” Ivy laughed.
Lady Snow shot her a covert glance. Why had Ivy told that lie? There was
no need for her to have said anything. She had not bought those roses.
The house was full of flowers always, and Ivy always was free of them
all. Ivy’s money went, almost to a dollar, on clothes. How had they cost
her dear? That much had sounded true to Emma Snow’s quick ears.
“By the way,” Sir Charles asked presently, “what was Blanche crying so
hard over this afternoon?”
Ivy flushed and answered. “She was in a temper because I would not give
her one of my roses.”
The two men looked surprised. How unlike Ivy, Sir Charles thought, and
was puzzled.
Lady Snow crumbled her bread. She was not puzzled. She knew now. Sên
King-lo had sent those roses. But how had Ivy paid dear for them—the
flowers of which she would not spare Blanche even one? Had she refused
Sên King-lo last night? She—Emma—feared not.