"Could what, Nang Ping?" He asked it a little uneasily—uneasy at a something in her voice.
"Tell them all about us," she replied simply, but her voice aglow with ecstasy at the thought.
Gregory was aghast. "Tell them all about us!" he cried hoarsely.
"Oh! not all things," she whispered, creeping a little closer in his arms. "There are some things one would not tell, even to the birds."
Basil Gregory's conscience, to its credit, shuddered sickly then, and his arm trembled, not in tenderness, but in shame.
But self-preservation is indeed the first law of much man-nature, and he said quickly, "I don't mind what you tell to the birds, but you must be extremely careful not to let my mother or sister know. Extremely careful," he repeated with dictatorial emphasis.
"Why?"
"They would not understand."
"Why?"
He made no answer, and after a little she questioned on, "They would not like to know that you are happy?"
"Of course they would, but"
"And that it is I that make you happy?" the light young voice pestered on wistfully.
The Englishman shifted uneasily on his seat. "Oh, no! nothing of that sort, to them, Nang Ping," he said petulantly. "Don't try to understand. Just leave it all to me."
"But," the girl persisted, "do they not understand love?" She put her arms about him.
"Oh! well," he parried, "you see, they are English—very English."
"But they are women." The Chinese girl shook her
