The Oriental spoke slowly.

“It was to destroy a Kingdom,” he said.

“To destroy the Kingdom of Pain!” She replied, “My father was seeking an anesthetic more powerful than the derivatives of domestic opium.  He searched the world for it.  In the little, wild desert flower lay, he thought, the essence of this treasure.  And he would seek it at any cost.  Fortune was nothing; life was nothing.  Is it any wonder that you could not stop him?  A flaming sword moving at the entrance to the Gobi could not have barred him out!”

The big Oriental made a vague gesture as of one removing something clinging to his face.

“Wherefore this blindness?” he said.

The girl had turned away in an effort to control the emotion that possessed her.  But the task was greater than her strength; when she came back to the table tears welled up in her eyes and trickled down her face.  Emotion seemed now to overcome her.

“If my father were only here,” her voice was broken, “if he were only here!”

The big Oriental moved his whole body, as by one motion, toward her.  The house was very still; there was only the faint crackling of the logs on the fire.

“We had a fear,” he said.  “It remains!”

The girl went over and stood before the fire, her foot on the brass fender, her fingers linked behind her back.  For sometime she was silent.  Finally she spoke, without turning her head, in a low voice.

“You know Lord Eckhart?”

A strange expression passed over the Oriental’s face.

“Yes, when Lhassa was entered, the Head moved north to our monastery on the edge of the Gobi — the English sovereignty extends to the Kahn line.  Lord Eckhart was the political agent of the English government in the province nearest to us.”

When the girl got up, the Oriental also rose.  He stood awkwardly, his body stooped; his hand as for support resting on the corner of the table.  The girl spoke again, in the same posture.  Her face toward the fire.

“How do you feel about Lord Eckhart?”

“Feel!” The man repeated the word.

He hesitated a little.

“We trusted Lord Eckhart.  We have found all English honorable.”

“Lord Eckhart is partly German,” the girl went on.

The man’s voice in reply was like a foot-note to a discourse.

“Ah!” He drawled the expletive as though it were some Oriental word.

The girl continued.  “You have perhaps heard that a marriage is arranged between us.”

Her voice was steady, low, without emotion.

For a long time there was utter silence in the room.

Then, finally, when the Oriental spoke his voice had changed.  It was gentle, and packed with sympathy.  It was like a voice within the gate of a confessional.

“Do you love him?” it said.

“I do not know.”

The vast sympathy in the voice continued.  “You do not know? — it is impossible!  Love is or it is not.  It is the longing of elements torn asunder, at the beginning of things, to be rejoined.”