“Drink,” Mr. Kung said, and lifting his bowl he put aside the cover, sipped the hot tea, and set the bowl down again.
“My daughter tells me she has shown you many sights,” Mr. Kung said.
“We’ve had a wonderful time together,” he replied, and waited.
Mr. Kung was silent for a few minutes, as though in meditation, then abruptly began to speak.
“I am Chinese. My family in China is very ancient and honorable. We are Mandarins. I do not know how many of my brothers are still living. Nor do I know where, except for my youngest brother who escaped to Hong Kong. He lives there under another name and he does business for me there. I came to Paris many years ago, but before I could complete my studies the government in my country changed. At that I might even have returned had it not been that my honored parents were among the first to be killed. We were landowners and my parents were killed by our own farm tenants, who were land-hungry peasants. Without parents, I was compelled to arrange my own life. It was not possible for me to return to my country to marry the woman to whom I had been betrothed by my parents when we were both children. Her parents too, and she herself, probably, were also killed. Therefore I arranged my life. I had an American—what do you call it—an ‘amie.’ You understand?”
He nodded in reply, and Mr. Kung continued.
“I should have known better—but she wished me to marry her because she was pregnant and I did so. I wanted a family. I had a duty to carry on my family. A son would have been Chinese, though he had foreign blood. He would have borne my name. Therefore I married. As it turned out, she had been pregnant but she lost the first child through a miscarriage. I’ve always thought she caused it deliberately and at the time I was very angry. When she became pregnant the second time, a year later, I myself saw to the details of her care. My daughter was that child. Then later, the mother—the woman—became enamored of an American, an artist, not even a good artist, either. She left me when the child was only six years old. But she has been a good child, very intelligent. Yet she is a daughter. You also find her intelligent?”
“Very intelligent,” Rann said.
“And—beautiful?” Mr. Kung asked.
“And beautiful,” he agreed.
Mr. Kung sipped his tea again and set the bowl down as before. He cleared his throat and proceeded.
“I am encouraged, then, to go on with what I am about to propose. First, let me say that of all the young men I have seen, you are the only one I would choose as my son to be born to me. You have an old soul. I am too modern to believe in reincarnation—and yet I am old enough that I believe. I wish you were my natural son. It could have been so. Your mind is pure intelligence. You speak little but you understand everything. When I tell you something—anything—I can see you already know.”
What could he say? He remained silent.
“In my country,” Mr. Kung went on, “we have an ancient custom. Where there is no heir, no son to carry on the family name, the favorite son-in-law, the husband of a favored daughter, is adopted as the true son. He assumes the family name. He becomes the son, the heir.”
Mr. Kung held up his hand to stop reply, for he had lifted his head, he had opened his mouth to speak. “Wait! I said heir. I am a very rich man. I am even famous. My word is trusted in this foreign country. I am an authority in the highest forms of Oriental art. I will teach you everything. You will inherit my business—when you marry my daughter.”
“Sir,” he said, “have you talked with your daughter about this?”
For a thought had crept into his mind as he listened to Mr. Kung’s mellifluous, gentle voice, that father and daughter might have planned together this proposal. Perhaps Stephanie had even prepared for it by declaring to him previously that she did not wish to marry. Perhaps in fact she did. He had learned from Lady Mary that a woman could pretend indifference when in truth her heart was set upon something—upon someone.
“I have not spoken with my daughter,” Mr. Kung now said. “It would not have been fitting until I had your word. If you are willing—if you would even consider becoming my son, then my heart rejoices. I will go to my daughter at once. But no—you are American—I must not forget that. After I have spoken to her you shall speak to her yourself. I am not old-fashioned. I will permit it. I must remember she also is partly American. It is difficult for me to remember that. And yet I never forget it either. Now I will be silent. I await your answer.”
Mr. Kung smiled at him, a warm, welcoming smile, a smile of expectant happiness. He did not know how to begin. He understood by God-given instinct all that this good man, this aging Chinese father, was feeling. He shrank from hurting him, and yet he had his own life to fulfill in ways that were only just beginning to clarify. He had not faced marriage even as a possibility. Lady Mary had made the very thought of it impossible. She had ravaged some part of him. He was damaged somewhere in his inner soul. She had forced something in him too soon. What might have developed in him with natural beauty had been torn open. True, too, true, he had yielded when he should have resisted but what had at first been a physical surprise of delight had become a repulsive demand. He had indeed been used and therefore misused. Where, even if he married, it must be so different that the past would be cleansed.
“Sir,” he began with resolution that was at the same time difficult. “I am honored. Indeed, sir, I don’t know a man whom I would be more honored to call my father. But sir, I am not ready to marry. I have a family too—a mother, a grandfather—”
Mr. Kung interrupted. “You will be able to care for both.”
“But sir,” he said with urgency, “I have myself. I must consider that for which I was born—my own destiny, my fate… my—my job, sir!”
“You mean—you mean—you decline?”
“I must, sir!”
He rose, and Mr. Kung rose too. He put out his right hand but the Chinese did not take it. The Chinese face grew cold and stern.
“Don’t you understand, sir?” he pleaded.
Mr. Kung glanced at his wristwatch. “Excuse me,” he said. “I see that I have another appointment.”
He bowed and left the room.
AN HOUR LATER RANN WAS in the beautiful rooms where he had been so happy for all these months. He was packing his bag, he was gathering together the few things he had brought with him, leaving all else behind, and Stephanie was with him. The bus left for the airport in half an hour.
“I must go home,” he kept muttering. “I want to go home. I want to get back where I began. I have to be alone there.”
He heard himself and stopped. He turned to Stephanie. She stood there, pale and silent.
“Do you understand, Stephanie?”
She nodded. Suddenly he realized he was leaving her. “Shall we ever meet again?”
“If it is our fate,” she said.
“Do you believe in fate, Stephanie?”
“Of course I do. At least the Chinese part of me does.”
“And the other—the American?”
She shook her head. “You’ll miss the airport bus. The taxi is waiting.”
“Aren’t you coming with me?”
“No. I’m not coming with you. I’d only have to come home alone. Besides, I want to be here when my father comes home.”