Yang Kuei-fei to whisper in her ear: "The rose is not as lovely as Yang Kuei-fei, whose warm beauty it copies."
Yang Kuei-fei flushed. Almost breathlessly, she said, "Why not a peony?"
"Because the rose is Arabian. It came from my people with the jasmine." Naturally this was hyperbole in its most exaggerated sense for An Lu-shan was a Kitan-Tartar. When he had battled the Kitans, he had been fighting his own people. Still the exigencies of the situation required a pretty speech. He grasped eagerly at the opportunity.
"And the poppy," added Yang Kuei-fei in a tremulous voice. "There is a drug in what you are saying—the drug of flattery—so sweet, so sticky sweet."
"But pleasant?" he pursued, remorselessly.
"Too pleasant." Her voice was almost inaudible.
Abruptly, he changed his method of approach. "If I have offended, I will leave Changan."
"That isn't necessary."
Then he risked all by saying, "Without you there would be no people in Changan."
The intensity of his tone was frightening. She placed her hand over her heart, in a futile effort to stem its violent throbbing.
Mercifully, Ming Huang came, unknowing, to the rescue. With words from the fullness of his heart, he said, "If you were my own son, I could not be more grateful for your loyalty."
Impulsively, Yang Kuei-fei burst out, "Let me adopt him. Then he will be your son in truth."
