"You think I'm a naughty boy?"

"Oh well, I didn't mean that, my young Sir Galahad! Now come away with me and I'll show you the wonderful ferns and the orchid house. I must have a good, comfortable, private talk."

As soon as the pair found themselves alone in the fernery she turned to face him, and said, with unusual animation:

"Now I want to tell you about Sophy—I'm miserable when I think of her."

"Miserable—but why?"

"When you've been to call at 'Heidelberg'—I may tell you it's miles and miles away—you'll see for yourself; it's my opinion that she has been decoyed out to this country under false pretences."

"Oh, but surely Mrs. Krauss is her own aunt?"

"She is, and more or less an invalid, utterly broken down by years of Burma. Mrs. Krauss is apathetic, dull, and baneless, and looks as if you could fold her up and put her in a bag. Herr Krauss is a fat, loud-talking, trampling German—not a gentleman, but a man with a keen eye to business. His wife's half-caste maid who waited upon her, managed the house, and was with her for years, has married and gone to Australia, and poor Sophy has been imported to replace the treasure; that is, to nurse her aunt, run the house, and play the old bounder's accompaniments, for he, like Nero, is musical. He is also a friend of that odious Bernhard's. Bernhard is a well-born Prussian—I'll say that for him—the other is of the waiter class, who has made his money in China and Burma."

"Oh, come, I say, this is rather bad! What's to be done?"

"I only wish I knew. The Krauss abode is large and gloomy—it looks like a house in a bad temper, and stands in the heart of the German community; the servants seemed a low-class lot, the rooms were dark and untidy, and smelt of mould and medicine, but Sophy was just as bright and cheerful as usual; apparently delighted with everything—loyal, of course, to her own blood. Now, I know that you and Sophy are friends, and I want you to keep an eye upon her," concluded this injudicious matron.

"I'm afraid my eye will not be of much use," protested Shafto, "I am most frightfully sorry for what you tell me, but Miss Leigh has lots of pals. There are the Pomeroys, Maitlands and——"

"Yes, that's true," interrupted Mrs. Milward impatiently, "but she has no way of getting about. Krauss takes the car and is away in it all day. I gather that he has the strict German idea about a girl's being brought up to cook, to sew, to slave, to find all her interests in her home! In fact, he told me so plainly; he also added that he had paid for Sophy's passage and implied that he intended to have the worth of his money—his pound of flesh!"

"Brute!" ejaculated Shafto.

"Agreed! I have enlisted one friend for the poor child. Polly Gregory—she is so clever, clear-headed and decided, and will be a rock of strength—she is sure to like Sophy, eh?"

"Oh yes, that will be all right!"

"I put in a good word for you too, Master Douglas."

"That was kind," and he swept off his straw hat.

"I wonder if that's meant sarcastic? Perhaps you think good wine needs no bush? Yes, and I've told Polly I knew you as a boy—and how, instead of quill-driving, you hoped to wear a sword."

"Hope told a flattering tale," he answered with a laugh. "Don't forget that the pen is the mightier of the two."

"No," she dissented; "I back the sword, though it's rarely drawn now, thank goodness. Well, I've said my say and given you my impressions and instructions; we must go back and join the Burra Mems. I shall write to you from Mandalay and see you later, when I pass through to Calcutta. Now you had better go and try to get a set of tennis," and, with a wave of adieu, Mrs. Milward strolled away across the grass, an attractive personality with her fresh complexion, soft round face, dark pencilled brows, and bewitching mauve toilet—which toilet was subsequently tabooed by her daughter as "too young"!

"George," said Mrs. Gregory to her husband, "that new importation is a nice boy; Milly Milward has known him since he was in blouses; he has had rather hard luck; his father was swindled out of a comfortable fortune, and he has to turn to and earn his bread."

"What we all do!" growled George.

"Yes, but some ways are so much more agreeable than others. His profession was to have been along the path of glory."

"What is that?"

"Why, the Army, of course."

"And now his profession is checking inventories and cargoes. As he is new to the business, he will have his hands fairly full for the next few months; so, my dear Polly, don't turn his head just yet."

"As if I ever turned anybody's head."

"I cannot answer for others, but you certainly turned mine."

"Ah, but that was twelve years ago; I'm afraid my fascinations have faded since then. Joking apart, George, Milly has left me two legacies—two proteges to befriend. Shafto is one—I am to invite him to tea, and talk to him with wisdom, and win his complete and entire confidence."

"Oh! and the other?"

"The other is Miss Leigh, whom she chaperoned from home. She is living with an aunt, who is married to a German named Krauss."

"Yes, I know; a poisonous chap!"

"So she seems to think, and that this girl, who by all accounts is very pretty and charming, and a marvellous pianist, has been lured out to act as maid and housekeeper, and save the pocket of Herr Krauss. Now, as I have two legacies, I want to know if you will take one of them off my hands?"

"As if my hands were not full!"

"Yes, officially, only; now I offer you your choice. Which will you have? Shafto or the girl?"

"You need scarcely ask; I'll take the girl, of course, and leave you Shafto."

"Oh, you are an old silly!" she exclaimed, ruffling up his grizzled hair; "I wonder which of us will have the better bargain."

With regard to the subject of Mrs. Gregory's conversation, Douglas set to work with the proverbial enthusiasm of a new broom and soon became—as Salter had predicted—a cog in the whirling wheels of a machine. But Thursday being the Station holiday, he hired a taxi and had himself driven out to Kokine, in order to call on Mrs. Krauss and Miss Leigh; unfortunately his journey proved to be a waste of time and money. The leisurely servant who emerged from the entrance of "Heidelberg," salver in hand, accepted his visiting-card with a salaam, and then announced with stolid unconcern:

"Missis can't see."



CHAPTER XIV

THE MANTLE OF FERNANDA

During the long and weary wait whilst the Blankshire was being made fast, Sophy Leigh and her girl friends had collected in a group taking leave of one another and making plans for future meetings.

"I must say I envy you," said Lena Morgan, the elder of the two plain, pleasant sisters, whose father was "something in timber." "You will be the darling of enormously rich relatives, have several motors, and horses galore."

"I'm not so sure," she gaily rejoined. "'Galore' is such a big word, but from what my aunt has told us, I believe I shall have what is called 'a good time,' and I hope everyone of us will share it. I expect Aunt Flora will be here to meet me," she added with happy certainty.

"Why, of course she will," assented Eva Pomeroy; "she does not have a niece out every mail. I dare say she has already bought you a nice saddle horse. You will be riding every morning, and we can meet and arrange all sorts of jolly picnics and expeditions. I shall come round and look you up as soon as I've unpacked and settled."

At this moment a heavy bang announced the letting down of the gangway, over which a crowd instantly poured and scattered about the decks.

Among the first to appear aft was an immense individual, wearing a loose tussore suit, a huge pith topee, and a black and yellow cummerbund. His face, with its great jowl, wide lipless mouth, short chin, and a pair of goggle eyes, was distinctly of the frog type.

"Which of you is Miss Leigh?" he demanded in a loud voice, as he approached the group of girls.

Sophy stood forward and before she could evade the outrage, this ugly fat man had put his hands on her shoulders and given her a smacking kiss on each cheek.

Even in this exciting moment of imminent departure, the circle paused for a moment and stared aghast—such an appalling person to claim and kiss Sophy Leigh! What a frightful shock for the unfortunate girl—whilst the sensations of several young men on the verge of the group are better imagined than described!

Herr Krauss, for his part, had received a surprise of a far more agreeable nature, being entirely unprepared to welcome such a pretty, fashionable young lady, in the character of his wife's niece. Flora had invariably spoken of her relatives as "ugly, dowdy little things"; but then, she had only known them at the awkward age and, being herself remarkably handsome, was super-critical with regard to beauty.

"Now come along and show me your luggage," urged Herr Krauss, releasing his new acquaintance, "and I will see about it. The hand gepaeck can go in the car."

With a sense of dazed bewilderment, Sophy took a hasty leave of her friends and prepared to follow her leader. As she kept close behind him, whilst he forced his way through the crowd, she noticed his short, thick neck, and powerful, aggressive shoulders—she also noticed that he allowed her to carry all her parcels herself.

When at last they reached the car, he stepped in with surprising agility and said as he seated himself:

"Now come along, put your things, umbrellas, wraps and parcels here. My man," nodding towards a native, "will look after the heavy baggage. Better stick your dressing-bag in front, as there is not much room. I take up two shares—ha! ha!"

This remark was painfully true. His burly form occupied most of the back seat, and Sophy with difficulty squeezed herself in beside him. As they glided slowly away, through the dense throng, she looked about her—her curiosity as raw and eager as that of Shafto.

"What a wonderful, busy place!" she exclaimed. "I see you have telephones and trams in all directions."

"Oh, trams!" Krauss echoed contemptuously. "We have everything in Rangoon; great shops and offices, public buildings, a cathedral, a mosque, theatres, clubs, sawmills, rice mills, banks—oh yes, it's a fine place, and so rich," and he smacked his lips as he added, "Burma is the land of opportunity."

"How is my aunt?" inquired Sophy.

"Only middling—she will be glad to see you, and I expect you will do her good. We live a long way out—in Kokine, where Germans herd together, and I take this chance of a talk. I am a busy man—particularly of late; and time with me means money, so I'll tell you what I have to say in as few words as possible."

Sophy nodded her head in agreeable assent.

"Some years ago my wife met with a bad accident—a fall, out paper-chasing. It did not seem much at the time, though she lost her nerve; but it came against her later. During the last two or three years her health has broken down; she suffers from chronic neuralgia in head and spine, and for days she lies like a dead woman."

"Oh, poor Aunt Flora, how very sad!"

"Yes, you may say so. Well, for the last ten years she has had an invaluable maid—Fernanda, a Portuguese half-caste, a treasure, who waited on and nursed her, and took entire charge of the housekeeping. Fernanda understood my tastes to a T—the curries and stews and blood sausages that I am fond of, and was a rare hand at coffee. Then came a blow! Fernanda made up her silly mind to marry a Scotch engineer and go to Australia. I was at my wits' end the day she gave notice; I said to myself: 'Ach Gott! what can we do? No maids in Rangoon, and meine liebe Flora so helpless!' Then a splendid thought came into my mind—her nieces! Flora is fond of her family and has often talked of your mother, and of you, so I wrote off at once, and—here you are!"

Sophy was about to speak, but he laid a heavy, restraining hand upon her arm and continued:

"There are just one or two little things I wish to say. Your aunt has a clever ayah who knows what to do, and when, she has her attacks I leave her alone—by her own wish. Also, she doesn't like to have her health noticed—though everyone knows that she's more or less an invalid. I believe, if her mind were diverted and occupied she would be better."

"I'm a pretty good nurse," began Sophy; "I've a Red Cross certificate and I like nursing——"

"Oh, that is of no use," he interrupted impatiently. "You must nurse her mind; amuse her with cards, reading, games, music—that is your job. Well, then there is the housekeeping; you will have to take the place of Fernanda. She looked after the servants, the mending, the stores, and the cooking—you shall, step into her shoes. Of course, it will be an immense responsibility for a young girl."

As he spoke he turned his head and looked at his vis-a-vis with a glance which seemed to imply that he was endowing her with an empire.

"Of course, I am aware that you English are slatternly, ignorant, and extravagant managers," he continued pleasantly, "but my excellent friend and neighbour, Frau Wurm, has promised to take you in hand."

"But I'm afraid I could not undertake all this," protested Sophy. "I know very little of housekeeping in a large establishment. I can knit and sew, make coffee and savouries, arrange flowers—and that's about all."

"Gott! Gott! Can you not make confitures and cakes and salads? Confiture I must have with every meal—a nice saucer of cherries or raspberries or greengages, so good with meat. Well, well, never mind, you shall soon learn. Frau Wurm will teach you much. We no longer see company—just two or three men to dine and smoke; your aunt has dropped her English circle. The English community changes, and many of her old friends have gone away or died—and a good job, too! We live in the German quarter and are surrounded by compatriots. You speak German, of course?"

"No—only French; German is so difficult."

"Tch! tch! tch! How lazy you English are! We all speak English. As for me, my mother was English—you could not tell that I was not born an Englishman?"

Apart from his appearance and guttural r's, this claim was justified.

"I suppose you made lots of friends on board ship?"

"Yes, a good many."

"Girls, I suppose—idle girls, who will come buzzing round to coax you to play with them. That is all they are good for; but you will have your work, as I have pointed out. If you are industrious, I shall lend you a horse that was your aunt's—he is not up to my weight—and I will take you to our fine club when I can spare an afternoon. At present, I am immensely occupied, engaged in collecting wolfram. Do you know what wolfram is?"

"No, I have never heard of it," humbly admitted Sophy.

"Well, it is ore used for hardening steel—extremely scarce and valuable; it comes from Tavoy, but business connected with it takes me up and down the river, and even as far as Calcutta and Singapore. Now, with you to look after the house and your aunt, I shall feel so free and easy in my mind. Ah, here we are; this is 'Heidelberg,'" he said, as the car swung in between two tall gate piers.

"Heidelberg" was a good-sized residence, with spacious surroundings; palms, bamboos and crotona abounded, and a wonderful collection of gigantic cannas—red, yellow and orange—gave colour to the compound. A crowd of lazy retainers, who were hanging about, gaped in silence upon the new arrival.

"Now, I'll take you to your aunt at once," said Krauss, descending heavily from the car, but making no effort to assist his niece. Then he led the way upstairs, striding along the veranda with a heavy, despotic tread, and through a large, dim drawing-room, where Sophy caught an impression of much carved furniture, the figure of a large alabaster Buddha gleaming through the shadows, and a stifling atmosphere of dust and sandalwood. Pushing aside a tinkling bamboo screen, they entered another apartment, which was yet gloomier and more obscure, and here on a wide sofa, propped, among large, silk cushions, lay a sick and wasted woman, who turned on Sophy a sallow face and a pair of drowsy, dark eyes.

"Here is your new treasure, mein schatz," announced her husband! "I brought her straight up."

"Oh, dear child," she murmured, "this is one of my—my dreadful days; so sorry—so sorry—so sorry," and she slowly closed her eyes upon her pretty niece.

Sophy stooped and lifted her hand (which was limp and clammy) to her lips, and said to herself, as she did so, that poor Aunt Flora was woefully changed. She recalled her as a beautiful vision, beautifully dressed, and so gay. Now her face was yellow and withered, and she looked positively old and gaunt.

All at once a buxom ayah advanced—-a stout, straight-backed Madrassi, with her black hair in a chignon, a ring in her nose, jewelled rings in her ears, wearing a handsome blue-and-gold saree, coquettishly draped round her ample form, the usual short silk bodice, or choli, and numerous heavy bangles. She salaamed to Sophy with both hands, and Sophy, who had never before beheld such an apparition, gazed in admiring silence; the ayah's carriage, her gait and sheeny protuberance, recalled to mind a prosperous pouter pigeon.

"My missis plenty sick to-day," said Lily, "never seeing people—that no good; to-morrow, she may be arl right, but now she must sleep, and I will take the new missy to her room."

Sophy's room, which was large and, rather bare, overlooked the stables, cook-house and servants' quarters, and here she was introduced to her own attendant Motee, a timid creature in white, who seemed to rise, as it were, out of the floor.

"Motee is the best lady's ayah in Rangoon," explained Lily with an offhand air, "she understands Miss Sahibs, she will pack and unpack, dress hair—and hold her tongue."

After giving Motee some directions, unpacking her favourite hats and changing her dress, Sophy went forth in order to explore her new home. The whole establishment had a squalid, neglected appearance and sadly lacked the eye of the mistress. The compound or garden, with its masses of gorgeous tropical trees and plants, was overgrown and jungly, poultry wandered about at their own sweet will, and even invaded the veranda—yet apparently there was no lack of staff. On the contrary, from her bedroom window she had observed groups of men talking and smoking, presumably servants, as several wore silver badges on their turbans, and soiled white linen coats, and among these were some jovial Burmans and one or two wide-trousered Chinamen.

No doubt Fernanda, the treasure, had kept the house in working order, and now that she had abdicated, her sceptre lay in the dust—in every sense of the word. Was it her, Sophy's, duty to raise it? She noticed quantities of litter and cobwebs in the drawing-room, but there were no flowers or knick-knacks; the silver teapot that appeared with tea at five o'clock was nearly black. It was not a luxurious meal, a weak Chinese mixture, and a plate of fossilised biscuits.

The morning after her arrival Sophy was awakened by a soft tremulous touch on her hand; she opened her eyes and beheld her aunt stooping over her. She was clad in a shabby, splendidly embroidered red kimono, and appeared to have made a temporary recovery.

Mrs. Krauss offered her niece a warmly affectionate welcome and many caresses, and then, sitting on the side of the bed, asked eager questions respecting her mother and sister, their mutual relations, and all the family news; but made no allusion to the state of her own health, or to the dirty and neglected condition of her establishment.

"So Karl met you himself," she said, "although he is so busy; that was nice. He has a kind heart and I do hope you will like one another."

"Yes, I hope we shall," assented Sophy, but her conscience protested that this hope was vain—already she disliked him.

"He looks to you to step into Fernanda's shoes; but of course I won't have that. Fernanda had enormous wages. Oh, dear child, I can't tell you how I miss her," and tears stood in her dark eyes. "Karl has such odd, old-fashioned German ideas—you must not mind him—though he is getting more German every day. He says a woman is just a hausfrau, who must sew and cook and do whatever a man orders. She is to have no mind of her own—and very little amusement."

"Then, Aunt Flora, one thing is certain—I shall never marry a German."

"I dare say it strikes you as strange that I should have done so; but Karl has always been devoted to me. I suppose your mother has told you that, when I was eighteen, I ran away to marry Charlie Bellamy, whose regiment was under orders for Hong Kong; we were fearfully poor and fearfully happy; then in a dog-cart accident, Charlie was killed and I was taken up for dead. But I recovered, as you see. The Hong Kong people were angels to me—one's own country folks always are, when you are in trouble abroad. I was laid up for months. When I was better, Karl came forward and implored me to marry him; I was almost penniless and loathed the idea of going home, so that was how it happened. Karl was wealthy in those days, but afterwards he lost his money—our fortunes go up and down like a see-saw. I am afraid he is too fond of speculating and taking huge risks; he likes to be a man or a mouse. Just now he is not a mouse, but very, very rich. Well, my dear, I'll leave you to have a bath and dress; we shall meet at breakfast; it is many a day since I appeared there. Do you know I feel as if you'd done me good already!" and with a clinging embrace she departed.

As hours and days wore on, Mrs. Krauss became more and more charmed with her companion; it did not take her long to discover her unselfish character, amazing adaptability to these strange surrounding's and, above all, her gift of music. The invalid would lie prone on her sofa with a handkerchief over her face—rather suggesting the idea of a laid-out corpse—motionless and spell-bound, and when she spoke it was merely to murmur:

"Please go on, please go on, Sophy darling; your music is wonderful; you are my David and I am gloomy Saul. Oh, my dearest child, your exquisite gift has given me new thoughts, and opened the door of many delicious and half-forgotten memories!"

Besides soothing her aunt with dreamy and enthralling melodies, Sophy remembered her "job," and endeavoured to interest her in patience, in puzzles and the latest stitch; but Frau Krauss had no taste for cards or puzzles. She was, however, profoundly interested in Sophy's pretty frocks, examined them, priced them, and tried them on; otherwise she preferred to lounge among her cushions and talk, whilst her niece, who busied herself mending table linen, proved an invaluable listener.

"You are a treasure, my sweet child," she remarked; "I have so often longed for a companion of my own class and nation. All my neighbours are German; here in Kokine is a German colony; they all dine and have music, and gossip together, and I am rather out of it. Of course, I speak German, but not very fluently. There are two or three uncommonly smart women who speak English as well as you do, and their children have English names; but all the same, they hate us in their secret hearts and often give me a nasty scratch; so I needn't tell you that I don't open my heart to them. The English live in another direction—down the Halpin Road, or out by the Royal lakes, and I have really grown too lazy and careless to go among them. Besides, what is the good? My friends return to England, new people come, but as for poor me—I stay on for ever."

"And, of course, you would like to go home, Aunt Flora, would you not?"

"For some things, yes! But how can I leave Karl? Also, I feel that this country has got such a hold upon me—oh, such a hold!" And she closed her eyes and sighed profoundly.

Three whole weeks had elapsed since Sophy arrived, and during that time she had not been outside the compound. Herr Krauss had departed up country and taken the car with him; in the meanwhile Sophy had contrived to carry out some improvements, and induced her aunt to dismiss and replace several worthless servants. There had been a grand cleaning, dusting, and polishing; the drawing-room was rearranged, the compound cleared and tidied, flowers decorated the sitting-rooms—and the hens had been interned.

All this Sophy had not contrived to manage without assistance and advice; several German ladies had been to call, to inspect, to offer instruction, and to criticise. There was Mrs. Muller, a remarkably pretty, smart young woman (wife of the head of an important firm, who spoke English perfectly, played bridge and the violin). She and Sophy had an interesting musical talk, and arranged about duets and practisings; it was she who helped with regard to weeding out the staff, finding substitutes, and engaging a dirzee to mend and make. Augusta Muller was a born administrator, and the head of the neighbouring community. Another visitor was Frau Wendel, a dowdy middle-aged woman, who wore a hideous check cotton gown (much too short), green spectacles, and velvet boots; she stared hard at Sophy and asked her many personal questions. There was also the Baroness—a little lady with small patrician features, faded light hair and a brisk manner; and last, but by no means least, Frau Wurm, who daily arrived to fulfil a promise to Herr Krauss, and every morning, for one solid hour, imparted to Sophy instruction in the management of native servants, the reckoning of bazaar accounts, the coinage—rupees and pice—and the proper way to keep house linen and stores. She also gave her lessons in cooking on the oil stove in the veranda—not invalid delicacies, but dishes that were favourites with the master of the house, including confitures and Russian salad.

Frau Wurm was a competent teacher—practical and brisk. She drew up a list of menus, of shops to be dealt at, and hours for different tasks. As she worked she talked incessantly in excellent guttural English; her talk consisted of a series of personal and impertinent questions—her curiosity was of the mean and hungry class, and to every reply, satisfactory or otherwise, she invariably ejaculated, "Ach so!"

Among other matters she desired to know Sophy's age—the age of her mother—and sister; if their washing was given out; who had paid for her passage and outfit; where her mother lived, the rent of her house, and number of servants.

"So she keeps three servants!" she exclaimed. "Ach! but I thought she was poor!"

"No, not poor," replied Sophy. "Mother has a pretty good income."

"Ach so! and that is the reason, I suppose, that you cannot cook or make your own frocks, or do anything useful. Are you engaged to be married?"

"No," replied Sophy with a laugh, "not yet."

"Ach so! I do not think your uncle will permit you to marry any of those silly young English officers, who play games all day and are ashamed to wear uniform. Have you any relations in the Army?"

"Yes, I have two cousins; one in the Flying Corps and one in a submarine."

"Ach so! That is most interesting. Some day you will tell me all about them, will you not? I like to hear about submarines."

"Very well," said Sophy, who was busy mixing a pudding according to an elaborate German recipe.

"Yes, you are getting on," admitted Frau Wurm patronisingly. "You will be a good little housekeeper before I have finished with you. Tell me—how is your aunt to-day?" she asked abruptly.

"She seems better, much better."

"Yes, much better—better since yon came; you rouse her, though she doesn't get up now till eleven o'clock. She suffers from such a strange complaint—very mysterious," she added with a significant sniff.

"I don't think there is anything mysterious about neuralgia."

"Oh, yes, there is," rejoined Frau Wurm, lowering her voice; "we often talk it over and wonder. Long ago she was as others; now she is different, and seems but half awake—always so jaded and feeble and vague. There was only one who understood the case—that was Fernanda, and she has gone away, ach so!"

Sophy found her present life unexpectedly strenuous. The mornings were devoted to incessant house-keeping, writing lists, and making pickles and German condiments; in the afternoons her aunt absorbed her time. She did not seem to come to life till then.

"I know I am selfish," she confessed, as she looked through a number of invitations and cards which had been left for Sophy. "I do so want to keep you to myself; I don't wish to share you with the Maitlands and Morgans and Pomeroys; you have brought me a new lease of life. Of late I have felt like a half-dead creature, without even the energy to open a book, much less to get up and dress. I have the Burma head, and take no interest in anything."

"Then do please take an interest in me, Aunt Flora," said Sophy coaxingly, putting her arm about her and smiling into her haggard eyes.

"Very well, my dear; yes, I will—and at once. I shall take you out and amuse you. No time like the present! To-day I shall telephone for a motor, get Lily to look out my smartest clothes, and you and I will make a round of calls. You know it is the duty of a new arrival to wait on the residents?"

Sophy nodded.

"We will go in the afternoon, when they are all out, and so get through a number. There are no end of sets here: the Government House, the civilian, military, the legal, and above all the mercantile—they really count, these merchant princes, being numerous, wealthy, and so generous and charitable, and can snap their fingers at precedence. Then there is the German set, to which I should belong—but I don't. I tell Karl that my father was an English General and I am English—a real Englander. We differ in so many ways from these German women—in what we eat, like, and believe, and how we make our beds, do our hair, and even how we knit!"

Dressed for making a round of visits, Mrs. Krauss presented a different appearance from that loglike invalid her niece had first beheld. She was a picturesque, graceful woman, with a pair of heartrending dark eyes, while a little touch of colour on her faded cheeks illuminated a face that still exhibited the remains of a remarkable beauty. Mrs. Krauss, in a hired and luxurious motor, made a rapid round of calls among the principal mem-sahibs—who, as predicted, were not at home—and wrote her own and Sophy's name in Government House book.

The last house they visited was "The Barn." Mrs. Gregory received them and gave Mrs. Krauss and her niece a genial welcome. She and Mrs. Krauss had known one another for years, but had never been really intimate or close friends. Mrs. Gregory was energetic, modern and vivacious; the other, a somewhat lethargic beauty, was not interested in the burning questions of the day, and had long ceased to take part in local gaieties; but her niece, as Milly said, was charming, and Mrs. Gregory felt immediately inspired by a liking for this pretty, graceful, unaffected girl. Sophy, for her part, was delighted with this large, English-looking drawing-room, with chintz-covered furniture, quantities of flowers, books, an open grand piano, and a pile of music. The hostess, too, Mrs. Milward's cousin, attracted her and made her feel at home.

"And what do you think of Rangoon?" inquired Mrs. Gregory.

"Oh, do not ask her," interposed Mrs. Krauss with a dramatic gesture, "she has been with me for more than a fortnight, and this is the first time she has been beyond Kokine. It is all my fault; she has had such a lot of housekeeping to see to and take over, and she is such a delightful companion that I have not been able to bear her out of my sight."

"But, dear Mrs. Krauss, we cannot allow you to appropriate Miss Leigh altogether. I hope you will spare her to me now and then. Perhaps Miss Leigh could come with me to the Gymkhana dance next week?"

"I should like it very much indeed," said Sophy, glancing interrogatively at her aunt.

"Well, if I cannot take her myself, I shall be glad if you will chaperon Sophy. She has not had any amusement yet and one is young but once! And now we must go; no thank you, we won't wait for tea. I intend to rush the child round the lakes—she has not seen them—and then do some shopping in the bazaar."

After the departure of her visitors, Mrs. Gregory stood in the veranda and watched them as they sped away together—the dark faded beauty, the pretty, fresh girl—and said to herself:

"I wonder!"



CHAPTER XV

THE CHUMMERY

The chummery to which Douglas Shafto had been introduced was a rambling old bungalow, and the edge of the Cantonment, sufficiently close to offices and work. Although by no means modern, it boasted both electric light and fans, and the rent was fairly moderate; the landlord, Ah Kin, a Chinaman, called for it punctually on the first of every month, but closed his slits of eyes to various necessary repairs.

Among the three chums already established was Roscoe, a dark, well-set up man of five or six and thirty, with a clean-shaven, eager face, artistic hands, and a pair of clever eyes. Roscoe had been in turn a junior master, a journalist and actor. Dissatisfied and unsatisfactory in these situations, his friends had found him an opening where he would be at too great a distance to trouble them—in short, a billet in a Burma oil company in Rangoon. Amazing to relate, the post suited him and the rolling stone came to a standstill; well educated and intellectual, endowed with a curious eye and a critical mind, he was anxious to see, mark and learn the life of his present surroundings. Out of business hours, Roscoe devoted himself to this task with such whole-souled enthusiasm, that at times he actually imagined that he had his finger upon the pulse of this strange, new world. The oldest and least prosperous of the fraternity, his companions liked him and spoke of Roscoe as "a queer fish, but a rare good sort."

Patrick Ormond FitzGerald, police officer, a genial native of County Cork, was about thirty years of age, handsome, generous and hot-headed, who enjoyed every kind of scrap and sport—including chasing dacoits and smugglers. He diffused an atmosphere of good humour and confidence, was universally popular and invariably in debt. Chum number three, James MacNab, hailed from "Bonnie Scotland"—a spare, sandy, canny individual, who, far from being in debt, was carefully amassing large savings. He had a pretty fiancee in Crieff, who sent him weekly budgets and the Scotsman. He owned a sound, steady ambition, and seldom made an unconsidered remark. "Mac" was an employe in the Irrawaddy Flotilla Company, where he was rapidly rising, so to speak, to the surface.

Each "chum" had a room to himself, but they took their meals together in a wide, open veranda, and were catered for by a fat Madrassi butler, who did not rob them unduly, seeing that his accounts had to be inspected and passed by thrifty "Mac," who ruthlessly eliminated all imaginative items.

In their large compound their cook kept game fowl—long-legged fighting cocks from Shanghai—and other poultry, including the curly feathered freaks of Aracan. Here FitzGerald stabled his horses—a capital pair, trust an Irishman for that!—and Roscoe, a stout elderly Shan, ironically nicknamed "Later On." MacNab rode a bicycle; a useful mount that required neither oats nor groom.

The three chums soon made Shafto feel at ease and at home; they were lively companions, too. Roscoe was a capital mimic, and kept his company in roars of laughter. FitzGerald drew notable caricatures and could tell a story with the best. "The MacNab," who had a certain dry wit, took the stranger firmly in hand with regard to finance—namely, the furnishing of his room and other expenditure.

"Bide a wee; go slow at first," he advised. "Just hire a few sticks from Whiteway and Laidlaw, and wait your chance for picking up bargains at Balthasar's auction rooms; anyway, you don't want much. A bed, a couple of chairs, table, washstand and tub. I have a chest of drawers I can let you have cheap. In the rains the pictures fall out of their frames, the glue melts, rugs are eaten by white ants in a few hours—and your boots grow mushrooms."

"That's a cheerful look out!" exclaimed Shafto. "Well, I have nothing to tempt the white ants."

Shafto was adaptable and soon found his feet. At first his entire time and energies were concentrated on his new job and learning an unaccustomed task; he spent hours on the wharves along the Strand, or across the river at Dallah, standing about in the glare, and dust and blazing sun, amongst struggling, sweating coolies and swinging cranes. He had also to supervise his Eurasian subordinates, see paddy shipped, and keep a sharp look out for their delinquencies, such as receiving "palm oil," or overlooking damages.

In the midst of his daily work Shafto was not insensible to his surroundings, but, on the contrary, acutely alive to the strange bewildering glamour of the East, where life dwells radiantly. He was interested in the ever-changing shipping, the crowds of strange craft lying by the wharves or moored to buoys in the great impetuous Irrawaddy, and the swarms of sampans darting in all directions. Overhead was the hot blue sky, blazing upon a motley crowd, which included the smiling faces of the idle, insouciant, gaily-clad Burmans—most genial and most engaging of nations.

Down by the godowns, where Shafto worked, the stir and press of commercial life was tremendous; on every side roared and dashed trams, motor-lorries, traction engines and—curious anachronism—long strings of heavily-laden bullock carts. Here was trade from the ends and corners of the earth; out of her abundance this rich country was shipping to the nations wood, oil, rice, metals, cotton, tea, silken stuffs, ivory, jade, and precious stones; masses of cargo lay piled on the wharves, amid which a multitude of noisy coolies, busy as ants, went to and fro incessantly, whilst in the distance the saw-mills screamed, the steam dredgers clanked, and tall factory chimneys blackened the heavens.

All this amazing restless activity seemed strangely out of its natural perspective; the scene should have been laid in Liverpool or Glasgow, instead of displaying a background of palms, tropical trees, gilded pagodas, and a circle of gaily-dressed, idle natives.

Although the British and German residents did not assimilate, Shafto saw a good deal of their mercantile element. At ten o'clock every morning hundreds of Teuton clerks poured into Rangoon from the surrounding neighbourhood, and he could not but admire their indefatigable business activity, tireless industry, and world-wide radius of action. Long, long after British firms had closed for the day, and their employes had rushed off to amuse themselves at football, golf, or boating, the German was still sticking to it and hard at work. But there was another feature of which Shafto was aware and could not applaud; this was the "spy" system. There were rumours of an active gang (manipulated from Berlin), whose business it was to discover what English firms were doing in the way of large contracts, and subsequently to enter into competition, cut out, and undersell. It was said that their methods were both prompt and ruthless. It was also hinted that one or two firms winked at contraband, offered irresistible bribes, and made fabulous profits.

The individual characteristics of his fellow-inmates were soon impressed upon Shafto, and the interest they evinced in him—a mere stranger—was undeniably agreeable to his amour propre. MacNab, who was sincerely concerned about his financial affairs, instructed him in many clever economies, and the localities of the cheapest shops; he was also emphatic on the subject of cautious outlay—and full of warning against the horrors of "a rainy day."

FitzGerald, on the contrary, was eloquent in favour of "the best that was going, and hang the expense!"

"You'll want two horses, my boy," he announced, "if you're going in for paper-chasing and the gymkhana; you might chance on a bargain, too. I heard of a fellow who got a wonder for three hundred rupees, an ugly ewe-necked brute, but he carried off the Gold Cup and every blessed thing he was entered for. On the other hand, such a windfall is a very outside chance; then you must have a small car for the rains—I believe you would get a nice little Ford for six hundred rupees."

Shafto received this advice with a shout of laughter.

"A racer and a car on four hundred rupees a month! FitzGerald, you are raving mad. If I followed your advice——" he paused.

"You would soon be shunted out of Gregory's," supplemented MacNab, who, with impassive face, was lolling in a long chair, a silent but attentive listener.

"Ah, don't be minding that fellow!" protested FitzGerald. "Shure, he'd sell his father's gravestone, if he ever had the heart to put it up."

"Well, I pay my way, Fitz, and can walk down Phayre Street at my case, whilst you——" he paused significantly.

"Oh, well, I own a few bills, I know—six hundred rupees a month goes no way here, but it'll be all right when my ship comes in; anyhow, I'll have had a good time—I'll have that to look back upon when I'm an old fellow upon the shelf. Now you," suddenly turning to stare at MacNab, "never spend a rupee; you wouldn't take a taxi to save your life, never go to a cinema or a concert, nothing that costs money; you just bicycle and drink lemon squashes and write home."

"Oh, if you want to ride in taxis and go to cinemas, you might as well be in London," put in Roscoe, who had joined them.

"I wish to the Lord I was!" declared FitzGerald; "standing at the corner of Piccadilly Circus this blessed minute, and making up my mind whether to go to the Criterion grill or to Prince's?"

"But as you happen to be in Rangoon, and not Piccadilly Circus, why don't you open your eyes and see the place, and enjoy it?"

"Enjoy!" repeated FitzGerald with a dramatic gesture; "see it? I see a deal too much of it; while you fellows are snoozing in bed, I'm turning out filthy liquor shops, drug stores, tea houses, and stopping Chinese fights, smuggling and murder."

"Yes, we know all that," rejoined Roscoe; "you look into the dark, Shafto and I see the bright side of this country."

"Oh, yes, you're a bright pair, and here, I'm off!" exclaimed the police officer, as he suddenly caught sight of a mounted orderly and thundered down the stairs.

Roscoe was neither economical, nor yet extravagant; he patronised the theatres and shows, made expeditions into the country on "Later On," read many books, and occasionally took a trip up the river in a cargo boat.

Shafto and Roscoe had one taste in common—a craving to see, know, understand and, as it were, get under the skin of this wonderful land. An impossible achievement! From the first they had been drawn together; they were searching in an eager way for the same object; they had both been at a public school and once, when Shafto dropped a word about Sandhurst, Roscoe said:

"I was intended for the Army, but I couldn't pass the doctor—rather a facer after scraping through the exam.; when that was knocked on the head, I got a post as assistant-master, but I couldn't stick it for more than a couple of years; after that, I was in a newspaper office; then I got badly stage-struck and went on the boards. Unfortunately, I was not a success; I never could do the love parts—I neither bellowed nor whined; at last my people got fairly sick of me, I was so often 'resting,' and they made a combined effort and hustled me out here into the oil business, and here I am in my element."

"I can't say you look particularly oily," observed his companion.

"Perhaps not, but I dare say to lots of young fellows I seem a dry old stick—anyhow, I was a stick in 'the Profession.'"

Occasionally Roscoe invited Shafto to accompany him of an evening, and introduced him to strange and wonderful sights—wrestling, cock-fighting, puppet pwes, or plays in the Burmese character. These were acted by little figures wonderfully manipulated by strings behind the scenes; the holder of the string also supplied any amount of dialogue (not always of the most decorous description), and also all the latest and coarsest jokes from the bazaar. To the Europeans these entertainments offered scanty amusement, but to natives they proved enthralling. An audience would sit spell-bound and motionless for a whole night, soothed and cheered by the strains of the Burmese band—that unique and original collection of sounds and instruments.

"In former days," explained Roscoe, as he and his companion sat staring at the bedizened actors and shrill little figures on a long, low stage, "these plays took place in the open air, on a midan; all the world was welcome, and as there was no charge, naturally all the world was present! They were usually given by some rich Burman, or widow, in honour of some offering or anniversary. An uncle of mine was quartered here years ago, and I remember him saying that he suffered sorely from these pwes; one play lasted for three consecutive days and nights—the Burmese brought their bedding. The great midan outside his bungalow was a seething mass of people; whose families were encamped—the place resembled a huge fair. Some were bartering, gambling, or eating horrible-looking refreshment, and altogether thoroughly enjoying themselves; rows and rows squatted motionless on the ground in front of the stage; of course, sleep, with such a fiendish commotion, was out of the question, and so my uncle was obliged to get up and wander about among the masses until daybreak; he said he never could make head or tail of the play, but one of his brother officers loved it; he engaged an interpreter and squatted for hours in front of the stage, enjoying what he considered 'a priceless treat.'"

Shafto, like Roscoe's uncle, failed to appreciate pwes, which were now held within stated bounds; he preferred out-of-door entertainments, as the heat, the smoke, the smell of raw plantain skins, the band, and the jabber were too much for him.

Roscoe, his cicerone, had contrived to learn a little of the difficult Burmese language, and knew the town to a certain extent—including something of the vast underworld, and even FitzGerald admitted that "old man Roscoe" could tell a thing or two, if he liked.

Before he had been long in Rangoon Shafto had also a glimpse into its depths. One night, returning from a "sing-song," as he reached the bottom of the outer stairs, he was startled by a voice from the pitch dark space beneath the house—a voice which said in a husky whisper:

"Is that you, Joe? Joe, for God's sake stop and give me a couple of rupees."

"It's not Roscoe," said Shafto, striking a match; "who are you?"

The flickering and uncertain light discovered a gaunt and unshaven European in the shabbiest of clothes.

"Roscoe's out; what do you want?" he brusquely demanded.

"Only a couple of rupees," was the hoarse reply. "I'm ashamed for you to see me; I'm down and under, as you may guess."

"Drink?" suggested Shafto, lighting another match.

"No; drugs—two devils: cocaine and morphia."

"I say, that's bad; can't you take a pull at yourself?"

"Too late now."

"Nothing's too late," declared Shafto; "believe that and buck up. Well, here are four rupees for you."

As he put them into a shaking hand the match went out, and the loafer noiselessly melted away into the soft and impenetrable darkness.

Next morning Shafto informed Roscoe of this strange encounter.

"Such a water-logged derelict was never seen! One of your underworld friends, I take it?"

"Worse than that," rejoined Roscoe; "he's my own first cousin."

In reply to Shafto's exclamation he added: "His father was the officer I told you about, who was so terribly worried by the plays. This chap was erratic, but a clever fellow and great at languages; he passed into the Woods and Forests out here, and enjoyed the wild jungle life for a good many years; now you see what he is—a wild man of the bazaars."

"But I say, Roscoe; can you do nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing; a cocaine case is hopeless. Opium you might tackle; the other is beyond the power of man or woman."

"But how does the fellow live?"'

"God knows!" replied Roscoe. "Most of these chaps keep body and soul together by stealing; there's a lot of smuggling going on in Burma, and I shouldn't be the least surprised if my cousin Richard had a hand in that!"



CHAPTER XVI

MR. AND MRS. ABEL SALTER

Shafto had been six weeks in Rangoon and, thanks to his chums, was beginning to feel completely at home—as is sometimes the case with adaptable young people in a strange and fascinating country.

His neighbours, the Salters, who were hospitable and friendly, had lent him a hand to find his bearings. Occasionally, of an evening, he and Roscoe would stroll over there after dinner, and sit in the deep veranda discussing many matters with the master of the house. Roscoe and Salter were more nearly of an age, and mutually interested in subjects that to Shafto seemed deadly dull and obscure. He liked to hear about sport, the country, and the Burmese; to all such topics he was an eager and ready listener, but when philosophy and sociology were on the tapis he would join Mrs. Salter indoors, to discuss the paddy crop, inspect her great rice bins, and argue over prices and sales; or he would listen to blood-curdling tales about nats, or house spirits, related by his hostess in animated, broken English, and with appropriate gesticulations. Mee Lay had a high opinion of the young man, and this was shared by her daughter, for "Shaft," as she called him, helped her to fly her kite, mended broken toys and brought her chocolates such as her soul loved.

During one of their prowling expeditions Roscoe had imparted the life-history of Salter to his chum. Salter's forbears were Yorkshire folk—thrifty, self-respecting, stiff-backed Nonconformists. His father and grandfather belonged to what is called "the old school," when parents ruled their families with an iron rod, and the meek, down-trodden children accepted punishment without question. Salter's grandmother had dismissed grown-up sons from table and kept a rebellious daughter for weeks incarcerated in her room. Salter's father had inherited her stern, Spartan spirit; he gave his heir a first-class education in the neighbourhood of London and, when he was twenty, recalled him to Bradford, there to take his place in the works and live at home. But Salter, junior, having tasted the delights of liberty, found home life unspeakably irksome; the laws against drink, dancing, smoking and the theatre were Draconic. He hated the long chapel service on Sunday, the endless hymns and emotional exhortations; the day concluding with family worship, which lasted three-quarters of an hour. The young fellow dreaded the Sabbath and rebelled against his gloomy, comfortable, middle-class home, where he had no individuality, no rights—and no latch-key! At last he broke loose—the flesh and blood of twenty-two years old revolted. At twelve o'clock one night he found himself locked out and, as the first bold peal of the bell elicited no reply, he never again applied for admittance, but with four pounds in his pockets and a good saleable watch, launched his little skiff upon the great, wide world.

Behold him now comfortably established in a foreign land, occupying a responsible position in a well-known firm, the husband of a clever, thrifty woman, who was actively engaged in building up his fortune. After an interval of some years, the Salters at home discovered that their prodigal had undoubtedly killed and thriven on his own fatted calf. The usual little bird had informed them that "Abel was much thought of and prosperous; had a grand home in Rangoon, dozens of servants, and was married." Friendly letters were dispatched—for "Nothing succeeds like success"—and a brisk correspondence ensued. Information and photographs were promptly exchanged, and the family received a nicely-finished presentment of Rosetta in her smartest and shortest frock. They were much impressed by the grandchild born to them in Burma, and she was immediately installed in a handsome silver frame, introduced to all their neighbours and to most of their chapel friends.

But what would have been the sensation of these worthy people if they had received a portrait of Mee Lay in full festival costume—flowers in hair and white cheroot in hand!

On the subject of Mrs. Abel Salter there was but scanty information; her old maid sisters-in-law were given to understand that she sent them her best good-wishes—she also forwarded silks and jars of Burmese condiments, but her husband declared that she was very lazy about letter-writing and constitutionally shy. Her maiden name, they were told, had been Mary Lee, and this information had sufficed.

Besides having the entree to the Salters' domestic circle, Shafto had been elected a member of the Gymkhana Club, where he made various new acquaintances—and these increased in number as his prowess in tennis and cricket became evident; then, with the advice—and, indeed, almost under the compulsion—of FitzGerald, he purchased a smart stud-bred mare, certainly no longer in her first youth, but sound, clever and full of "go." She was not called upon to shine on a race-course, but carried her master admirably in Station paper-chases on Thursday afternoons.

By the MacNab this investment was looked upon with a dubious and unfavourable eye, although he was aware that the price of "Moonshine" had come out of a small nest-egg which her owner had brought from home. He pointed out the enormous price of gram, or English oats, and he earnestly entreated Shafto "not to be led into follies by other people" (meaning FitzGerald), "but to keep his head and go slow."

During this month of November Shafto had frequently come across his fellow-passengers in the Blankshire; even Lady Puffle had acknowledged his existence with a bow; not once had he beheld the desire of his eyes—Miss Leigh. She appeared to have vanished as completely as a summer mist and, it was whispered, had been swallowed up and submerged by the German colony.

Mrs. Krauss had vouchsafed no notice of his visit and card; her niece was never to be seen either at the Gymkhana, or on the lakes—the principal meeting-places for young and old. More than once he imagined that he had caught sight of her in the cathedral at evening service, but she looked so different in smart Sunday clothes—a feathered hat and gauzy gown—that he might have been mistaken, and he heard from MacNab (the gossip of the chummery) that Krauss had brought forward a remarkably pretty niece, who had recently played in a concert at the German Club, and made a sensational success.

When Shafto rode in the mornings, he eyed expectantly every passing or approaching habit, but Sophy Leigh was never among the early cavalcade—for the excellent reason that she had no horse.

Mrs. Gregory, in spite of multifarious occupations as the firm's vice-reine, had by no means forgotten pretty Miss Leigh, nor her cousin's emphatic instructions; the girl had failed to accompany her to the Gymkhana dance—"her aunt was ill; she had been unable to leave her"—a stereotyped excuse to every invitation. The truth was that Mrs. Krauss, after two or three social efforts, culminating in a large dinner-party to her German neighbours, had collapsed with one of her worst attacks, and between nursing her relative and housekeeping for Herr Krauss (who was shamelessly greedy and exacting), Sophy had not a moment to spare, and the Madras boy turned away all callers—including Miss Leigh's friends—with his mechanical parrot cry, "Missis can't see!"



CHAPTER XVII

AT THE PLAY

Theatrical performances are the chief entertainment in Burma; the Burmese as a nation delight in plays—operatic, tragic, opera bouffe and ballets, such as the "Han Pwe," when a number of young girls, all dressed as royalties, posture and dance with extreme grace; and as their training is perfect, the entertainment evokes unqualified applause. So interested and absorbed do the audience become in long drawn-out dramatic performances, with interludes of dancing and singing, that they will bring their bedding, and not merely remain all night but several nights—according as the play may hold them! As a rule, the background is a palace, and the plot concerns the love story of a prince and princess, which is interrupted by all manner of vicissitudes—some grotesque, others of genuine pathos; to these the accompaniment of soft, wailing Burmese music is admirably adapted.

Po Sine, the greatest actor in Burma—an Eastern "star"—had recently returned to Rangoon from a prolonged tour, and his admirers, who numbered thousands, were all agog to see and welcome him.

The principal theatre was established in a large space at the back of the Great Pagoda, trustfully open to the soft blue night, otherwise strictly encompassed with matting; for in these changed and money-making days, there was an official box-office at the entrance and no admittance without cash payment! The stage was only raised a foot or two from the ground, and a long row of little lamps threw a becoming red light upon the scene. Here many rows of chairs were arranged for the use of Europeans, whilst the Easterns sat upon the ground on mats and folded themselves up in easy native fashion.

On the first night of Po Sine's reappearance, the arena was packed to the utmost limit of the matting. In the front were assembled many European residents, who were treated to bunches of flowers, paper fans, cheroots and lemonade; also, in a reserved space and on gorgeous rugs, reclined a number of splendidly attired and bejewelled Burmese ladies—princesses of the Royal house, a sprightly and animated group; their flashing diamond combs and long diamond chains made a feature amid the audience.

Mrs. Gregory had brought a small party, which included Mena Pomeroy, Robin Close—one of the assistants—and Douglas Shafto, who had never yet seen the famous Po Sine. Somehow Miss Pomeroy and Mr. Close had contrived to get separated from their chaperon, but Shafto still stuck faithfully to his hostess.

A puppet play represented the curtain-raiser, and as this, to Shafto, was no novelty, he stared about him at the masses of shining black heads; men with jaunty silk handkerchiefs twisted round their brows, women with their wreaths and golden combs—an undeniably smart audience—all smoking. The stage was open to the dark blue sky, which was sprinkled with stars. Right above them clanged a temple gong; from far down the river came the hoot of a steamer's syren, and during intervals the soft humming of the wind among the labyrinth of shrines—a complete contrast in every respect was this Eastern scene to the last play he had witnessed in a London theatre!

All at once there was an influx of people surging in—crafty folk who knew how to avoid the curtain-raiser. These included a number of Germans. Among the party in the train of Mrs. Muller, and attended by Herr Bernhard, was Miss Leigh in a dainty white frock and flower-trimmed hat, but somehow looking a little bit out of the picture. Her chaperon, magnificent in a Viennese toilet, unexpectedly encountered friends who had recently arrived from the Fatherland; these she hailed with boisterous jubilation, and as she chattered and gesticulated, listened and interrupted, she entirely forgot her charge; in fact, she moved on, still talking, and abandoned her, so to speak, to her fate.

Sophy's fate, luckily for her, happened to be Mrs. Gregory, who signed to Shafto to rescue the young lady and conduct her to a place under her own wing.

"How are you?" he said, accosting her eagerly. "Mrs. Gregory has sent me to ask if you won't sit by her? There is lots of room."

"I should love to, but you see I am here officially with Mrs. Muller. I'll go and speak to her, but I think she has filled my seat."

A hasty word to the chaperon, who had entirely forgotten her existence, released Sophy and, as she joined Mrs. Gregory, Frau Muller said with a shrug:

"Oh yes, she is rather pretty in her way. She has got among those odious English—let her stay with them!"

(Then she threw herself once more into the interesting topic of the latest scandal in Frankfort.)

"I am so pleased to see you," said Mrs. Gregory, making room for Sophy beside her; "what has become of you all these weeks?"

"Oh, I have been in Kokine and quite safe," she answered, but her smile was not so ready and whole-hearted as it had been on board ship. "Aunt Flora caught a chill and has been laid up. Poor dear, she is a martyr to neuralgia."

"I know she is subject to it, but surely she does not require you to be with her all day?"

"No, but Herr Krauss is at home now; the old cook has departed after a fearful explosion, and housekeeping is a struggle; servants are so difficult to find and deal with, especially by a strange 'missy' like myself. And Herr Krauss is particular about punctuality and the plates being hot, and all that sort of thing; I have to make Russian salads, confitures and sauces, so I have really had no spare time."

"Yes, I can imagine your hands have been pretty full. But do you mean to tell me that you run the house?"

"I don't exactly run it, but I do my best to drag it along—and it's rather awkward from my being a new-comer; pice and rupees are novelties, and everything is supposed to be in German fashion."

"German fashion!" echoed Shafto. "What's that?"

"Oh, particular hours, particular food, Blutwurst, sausages, Russian salads, cakes, creams, and plenty of them."

"Well, I must say Krauss looks sleek and well fed; he does you credit! But don't you ever get your Sunday off or your day out?"

"I suppose I do in a way. I have been to dine with one or two of our neighbours, and we had some really first-rate music; and then, you see, we live at a long distance from the Cantonment and the Gymkhana."

"But what about the car?"

"Herr Krauss uses it; he is away most of the day."

"But you have a horse to ride?"

"Yes, there was one; rather a nice-looking little bay, but soon after I arrived, he was borrowed by a man who has taken it up to Prome."

Mrs. Gregory had been listening to this conversation, making mental notes and setting down bad marks! Her cousin was returning from Mandalay on the following day, and she determined that she and Milly would wait upon Mrs. Krauss, and request her to liberate this prisoner. Mrs. Krauss was a charming, indolent, clinging sort of individual, who had latterly sunken into a somnolent existence and rarely appeared above the social surface. Formerly she had been a brilliant figure in Rangoon society, gave excellent dinners, danced, rode and played bridge and tennis; but, by degrees, she seemed to have dropped out of things, and Mrs. Gregory remembered how, once upon a time, when riding together, she had lamented that she had no children and no particular interests, and that her energy, such as it was, was ebbing rapidly. Of course, she had been too long in Lower Burma—eight years of Lower Burma, merely diluted with an occasional few weeks at May Myo, was enough to undermine any woman's mental and bodily state.

"And so your aunt has been ill?" she asked after a long pause.

"Yes, but she is much better now and very cheerful, so I was able to leave her and accept Mrs. Muller's invitation to accompany her to this play."

"You have seen nothing so far?"

"Well, not much, but there is lots of time."

Mrs. Gregory glanced at the girl and, in the searching electric light, noticed that her lovely colour was already fading, the lines of the face seemed a trifle sharper; beauty is fleeting in Lower Burma. Meanwhile Shafto, sitting so silent at the ladies' feet, was secretly boiling with rage.

So the fat old German, in spite of his wealth, had made his wife's niece both sick nurse and house-keeper; one of these tasks was ample for any girl; Miss Leigh had been six weeks in Rangoon and had never even seen the Pagoda!

"I know you are fond of riding," he began; "do you think you could come for a gallop if I produced a pony?"

"And a chaperon," supplemented Mrs. Gregory. "I can offer my services and a mount, and I'll call for you at seven o'clock on Thursday morning. You may come, too," she added, turning to Shafto, "and we will go to the Pineapple Forest."

"How delightful, and how very kind of you!" said Sophy. "I am sure I can manage—as long as I am in by nine o'clock."

"But why nine o'clock, my dear Cinderella?"

"Because I have to interview the cook when he returns from the bazaar. Herr Krauss is something of a gourmand and rather querulous about his food, and he often brings in one or two men to tiffin or dinner."

"A nice, amusing change," said Shafto. "You must find old Krauss a bit monotonous. What does he talk about? Wolfram or sausages?"

"He talks a good deal about my aunt—he really is devoted to her."

"Well, I'll mark him up one for that. I suppose the guests are his own compatriots?"

"Yes, they come on business, and are nearly always the same. They talk German all the time, which I cannot understand—only when they stare at me and say something about 'Englaenderin'; after dinner we have music and Herr Krauss and I play duets. His instrument is the violin—most of the neighbours are musical, first-rate musicians and so critical; I appreciate that—it keeps me up to the mark."

"I think, among them, they all keep you up to the mark," observed Mrs. Gregory, and whatever she was about to add was abruptly interrupted by a loud, swelling, unanimous murmur of "Ah Wah, Ah Wah," which suddenly rose from a thousand throats. This rapturous acclamation hailed the appearance of Po Sine, the star of the Burmese theatre—unsurpassed and unapproachable in either tragedy or comedy. Po Sine was nothing to look at—a thin, ordinary, little man, but endowed with genius; even those who could not understand a word he said immediately recognised the great actor.

This particular play was a favourite comedy; shouts of laughter shook the audience and the encompassing walls of matting, and in this Shafto and his companion could not help joining.

"I wonder what it is all about," said Sophy. "I know it's very amusing. What was that funny thing he said last?" she asked as the shrieks died down.

Shafto coloured guiltily. Although far from being an expert in the Burmese language, he had caught the drift of this sentence—a coarse double entendre, which he could not possibly interpret to a girl. Burmese plays are not always decorous; this particular performance was an odd mixture of ancient and modern. The lovers, who were, as usual, princes and princesses, played stately roles and moved about with majestic dignity and in gorgeous raiment—their prototypes dated from the days of Buddha; on the other hand, the clown and the country men, who enacted the parts of villains and devils, were essentially modern—as quick with patter songs and up-to-date local events and jokes as the cleverest music-hall artist. At intervals the weird Burmese band, with its clashing cymbals, harps and clarions, discoursed the latest Burmese operatic airs.

It was one o'clock and the great bell in the heart of the Pagoda had throbbed out its long deep note, when Mrs. Gregory rose and collected her party.

"I'm so sorry I can't take you with me," she said to Sophy. "I hope your German friends will not remain all night. However, I shall depute Mr. Shafto to look after you. Please tell your aunt that I hope to call and see her very shortly—and do not forget that you are to ride with me on Thursday morning."

As if it was likely! Then Mrs. Gregory took her departure, leaving Sophy and her companion to a tete-a-tete.

"I think we will move up closer to your friends," he said; "I see two empty seats behind them. Our people can't stick this for more than three or four hours."

"How have you been getting on?" inquired Sophy, "and how do you like Burma?"

"Burma suits me down to the ground; I like it most awfully. I've been very busy learning my job, but I've seen a good deal outside business hours."

"What have you seen?"

"Oh, well, wrestling, tattooing and cock-fights; I have been once up the river as far as Prome, and to several native shows, including a funeral."

"How have you managed that?"

"Salter, a fellow in our house, took me; the funeral was a strange affair—not a bit like ours; everyone in gala clothes, great feasting and a band in the house; altogether a lively entertainment. When a man is dying, his friends come and gather round and cheer him, and tell him of all the good deeds he has done in his lifetime. At the graveside there is an extraordinary business with a silk handkerchief, in which the nearest relation is supposed to catch and enclose the departed spirit, now in the form of a white butterfly—and dangerous to mortals for seven days and nights. I have seen a good deal of native life already."

"How lucky you are!" exclaimed the girl; "and I've seen nothing but Germans."

"Salter has taken me about and naturally he has extra opportunities, being married to a Burmese."

"Married to a Burmese?" echoed Sophy; her tone was incredulous.

"Yes. At one time it was quite a common thing. Mrs. Salter—her real name is Mee Lay—is sitting over there in about the fifth row back, behind the fellow with the scarlet handkerchief twisted round his head. Presently you must turn and look at her. She is a nice, cheery woman, and Salter is an interesting, original sort of man. I dine with them now and then. Mee Lay is uncommonly businesslike—has a good deal of land and a flourishing rice concern."

"She has? How amazing!"

"I see you don't know much of Burma yet."

"No; so far I am only acquainted with the bazaar prices, the gorgeous flowers, delicious fruit and futurist insects!"

"Well, women do most of the business and do it well; the men are a lazy, loafing lot; very genial and sporting, fond of cock-fighting and gambling—absolutely regardless of expense or debt. Mrs. Salter is rich; if you will look round now you will see her—the little woman with the yellow fan and diamond comb; notice her blazing ear-rings; and yet I have seen the same lady with her petticoats kilted high, standing knee-deep in a rice cart and diving with both hands into the grain to test its quality!"

"That is a very pretty girl with flowers in her hair, beside her," remarked Sophy; "look, she is nodding to you. Who is she?"

"Her name is Ma Chit; she is Mrs. Salter's cousin. Sometimes she drops in when I am there; the Salters live close to my chummery. I have a munshi now and I am learning Burmese."

"And—and I am learning German!"

"How do you hit it off with your uncle?"

"Please don't call him my uncle."

"Then I am answered."

Sophy laughed and coloured brilliantly.

"I suppose so. We do not coalesce; our ideas, age and country are different; he is hard as a rock, brusque and overbearing—but amazingly clever and energetic. He seems to hold so many threads in his hands, to deal with such numbers of people; his correspondence is enormous; his office, when he is at home, is surrounded and stormed by all sorts of people—Mohammedans, Chinese, Burmese, all waiting on his good pleasure and his nod. I scarcely see anything of him except at meals, and then he is too much taken up with eating to have time to spare for conversation; but we meet in one spot—music-land! He plays the violin; we do Beethoven together and are great friends; then when the piano closes——" she paused.

"You are enemies?"

"Not exactly enemies, but I do hate the way he gobbles his food and bullies the servants; and then he says such rude things about England—perhaps it's only done on purpose to make me angry? He declares we are a wretched, rotten, played-out old country, going down the hill as hard as we can fly. He is narrow-minded, too; so arrogant—the Germans can do no wrong, the English can never do right. I am telling dreadful tales, am I not? All the same, he has an English wife, and is simply devoted to Aunt Flora; nothing is too good for her. It is really funny to see this rough overbearing man so gentle and thoughtful. But then, she is a dear!"

"Oh, is she?"

"You shall see for yourself. You must come to tea on Sunday. I am sure I may invite you; Aunt Flora is so kind and sympathetic, and has a look of mother."

"I'll come all right, if you think she'll not be durwaza bund."

"No, she is ever so much better, but the last few years has been more or less an invalid."

"What is her particular illness? Is it fever?"

"Fever and neuralgia. Some days she will lie in a darkened room and see no one but her ayah; she won't even admit me, though occasionally I do slip in; she has had a bad attack lately, but is now convalescent. Oh, I see Mrs. Muller moving at last; now we shall be going."

"I'm afraid you've found this show a hit dull."

"Not at all—it has been a most interesting sight; I don't know when I have enjoyed myself so much."

"So have I; it has been a——"

Whatever Shafto was about to add was interrupted by Mrs. Muller, who pounced on his companion with a laughing apology, and handed her over to the charge of Herr Bernhard.

Two days later Mrs. Gregory and Mrs. Milward called at "Heidelberg," and on the veranda encountered Sophy, who was hurrying out to keep an appointment to practise duets with Frau Muller.

"I'm so dreadfully sorry," she said, when the first greetings were over, "but I must go; I'll get back as soon as ever I can. Aunt Flora is at home."

But when Sophy returned the visitors had already departed, leaving their hostess a good deal disturbed. Indeed, Mrs. Krauss's languid spirits had been violently shaken. Mrs. Milward had remarked on Sophy's changed appearance, and her tone had been hostile.

"It is very plain that Burma does not suit her," she said. "I could not believe that any girl would have altered in so short a time; I shall write to her mother at once."

"Oh, dear Mrs. Milward, what do you mean?"

"I should think anyone could see what I mean," rejoined the lady, who was very angry and had heard the tale of Sophy's heavy cares.

"The girl looks ill. I have known Sophy for years—known her since she was a small child—and I can assure you that she has never been accustomed to a strenuous indoor employment, to getting no exercise or relaxation—or ever meeting people of her own age."

Her hostess was struck dumb; her torpid conscience suddenly awoke and condemned her; Mrs. Milward, who was immediately leaving Rangoon and had no fear of retaliation, continued with ruthless animosity:

"It is true what you say—that your niece has been a wonderful comfort to you, but will it be a comfort to her mother when she hears that she is merely a hard-worked lady-help? I think it would be well to arrange that she should return home with me."

Tears now trembled in the culprit's dark eyes, and she fumbled for her handkerchief.

"Oh, Mrs. Milward," she said piteously, "I do see what you mean. I have been ill and stupid; my husband has always spoiled me, and thinks that other people are only brought into the world to wait upon me. I realise my selfishness now. Yes, you are right, the child looks pale and no longer flits about the house singing her little songs. I beg you will not alarm my sister; I will undertake that things are altered and you may depend upon me, dear Mrs. Milward; you have made me feel horribly guilty. I know I am a self-centred invalid, but I intend to mend my ways." And tears, no longer to be restrained, trickled down the worn, cadaverous face of Mrs. Krauss.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE CHINESE SHOP

The solemn promise Mrs. Krauss had made to Mrs. Milward was honourably redeemed, and a new and agreeable vista opened before Sophy Leigh. Her aunt roused herself, as it were, from a long sleep; the little bay horse was recalled from Prome; a Rolls-Royce was purchased (Herr Krauss signed the cheque without a murmur); a highly-recommended Portuguese butler was engaged to undertake the heavier forms of housekeeping; and Mrs. Krauss once more re-entered society—figuratively leading by the hand a lovely niece, of whom she was unaffectedly proud and who, she imparted to her friends, "had given her a new interest in life."

Hitherto, she declared, she had felt like a flower that was withering for the lack of sun; now Sophy supplied the sunshine. Sophy was endowed with a personality that inspired happiness, and looked on the world as the abode of joy. And so at last pretty Miss Leigh tasted the delights of the Gymkhana Club, and took part in tennis, golf and dancing. There were boating parties on the Royal lakes and picnics in the woods. She made many acquaintances and had quite "a waiting list" of partners. Sometimes of a morning, but much more frequently of an evening, after tennis or boating, Mrs. Krauss would drive down to Phayre Street. There the shops were on the best European lines, and exhibited all the latest articles from London, Paris, or Berlin, tempting rupees out of people's pockets. Mrs. Krauss was a liberal purchaser, whether of European stores, fancy goods, drapery, or jewellery; this generous aunt presented Sophy with a pair of heavy gold bangles, a string of pearls and an exquisite fan and kimono. These latter were found at an Indian repository owned by a well-known Bengali, with a large clientele (Burmese themselves are too indolent to make successful shopkeepers—they much prefer to look on, and laugh, and bargain). In this and other emporiums of the same class were to be found rare embroideries, ivory carvings, eggshell china, Oriental draperies, jade, and piles of Chinese and Japanese silks of the most exquisite fabric and colour. Sophy liked to wander round, to marvel and admire, but soon discovered that to do the latter was to be immediately endowed with her fancy—be it an enormous Chinese jar, or a lacquered cabinet, or a mere silver bowl. Mrs. Krauss firmly resisted every denial and excuse.

"My dear," she would protest, "do not refuse me; mine is the pleasure. I don't know how to spend all my money, and never until now have I had a girl to whom I could offer presents—and to give is such a joy. I am a rich woman, with no belongings except you and yours. Certainly, I don't deny that this big gong" (the present in question) "is rather a clumsy affair, but it is old and a beauty. What a deep, rich, melancholy tone! When struck it seems to tell of some sad, sad story that happened hundreds of years ago. After you are married, dear child, it will be so useful in your hall."

On these excursions there was one little shop that was never neglected or overlooked; this was situated in a narrow slum, a long way from the great artery of traffic and fashion. After negotiating various tortuous windings and encountering horrible gusts of stale napie and the ever-odorous dorian, the car halted at a certain corner, and Mrs. Krauss and her companion made their way into a narrow ill-lit lane, and entered a mean den kept by a fat, crafty-looking Chinaman and his lean, pock-marked son. There was, as far as Sophy could discern, nothing whatever to interest or attract upon the premises. The stock was ordinary and scanty; a few coarse china tea-sets, some teapots in cane baskets, paper fans, lacquer trays and odds and ends of the cheapest rubbish; but Mrs. Krauss solemnly assured her niece that "it was the only place in Rangoon for the real guaranteed netsukes," of which she was making a collection.

A Japanese netsuke is an elaborately-carved ivory button of various shapes and sizes—no two are alike; they take the form of men or animals and, as a rule, are executed with amazing delicacy, and, if signed and old, are of considerable value.

Mrs. Krauss, who spoke a little Chinese—and was proud of her accomplishment—appeared to know the fat proprietor rather well, and together they would retire into a dim inner recess, illumined by an oil lamp hanging before an altar, and there examine, bargain and gloat over treasures.

Meanwhile Sophy, who remained in the outer shop, was offered a seat and tea, without milk or sugar, in what resembled a doll's cup; by her aunt's express desire she always accepted this refreshment, although she found the decoction unspeakably nasty; it seemed to taste of an evil odour. Sometimes Mrs. Krauss would linger for fifteen minutes, sometimes for longer, talking over netsukes and Hong Kong with Ah Shee. The atmosphere of the place was overpowering; such a stifling reek of a mysterious effluvium, the combination of joss sticks, stale fish, rancid oil, and a sickly taint like the fetid breath of some mortal sickness; it made Sophy feel faint and, after a short interval, she invariably made her way into the street, where the air—though by no means fresh—was an improvement on that within the shop.

The street was narrow and squalid and the houses were dilapidated—even for a native quarter; passers-by had a slinking stealthy gait, and cast glances of surprise and suspicion at the young lady who lingered outside the premises of Ah Shee.

One evening, as she waited thus, in the warm, damp dusk, FitzGerald in uniform clattered by; he caught sight of Sophy out of what is called "the tail of the eye," and pulled up so suddenly as to throw his horse upon its haunches.

"Miss Leigh!" he exclaimed. "Yes, it is! May I ask why you find yourself among the Seven Dials, or devils, of Rangoon?"

"Oh, Aunt Flora comes to Ah Shee's shop hunting for ivories; she is collecting netsukes."

"Netsukes!" he repeated; "netsukes here!"

"Oh yes, and such good ones—the best in Burma; but it's a horrible place, and as to the odours!" and she made a gesture expressive of disgust.

"Yes, by Jove, the Chinese beat all the world in stinks; but I say, Miss Leigh, try to persuade your aunt to hunt elsewhere for ivories—this part of the world is unhealthy."

"I'm not surprised at that."

"Be advised by me and make this your last visit to this chinky shop. Well, I must be shoving on," and he trotted away.

A moment later Mrs. Krauss emerged and, by the quivering eye of an electric lamp, Sophy noticed that she looked strangely animated—indeed almost radiant. No doubt she had secured some wonderful prize.

"Who were you talking to, my dear?" she asked.

"Mr. FitzGerald; he was so surprised to see me and says we ought not to come here—the place is unhealthy and, indeed, Aunt Flora, I wonder you can stand the reek of Ah Shee's den for so long without feeling horribly sick."

"Oh, Mr. FitzGerald—the police-officer? Yes, he is right; it is a low neighbourhood and the air is poisonous, but I've managed to get what I wanted," and she held up a pocket handkerchief bulging with ivories. "I won't have to come again for ages and ages."

Meanwhile Ah Shee and son had shuffled off to summon the chauffeur, and the car now appeared round the corner of the street, looking like some crouching black monster, with round, fiery eyes. Attended by the two obsequious Chinamen, Mrs. Krauss and her niece entered the motor and were speedily borne away. For a considerable time the former did not open her lips, but lay back in her corner in an attitude of contented lassitude.

They made their way homewards through the teeming bazaar and brilliantly illuminated Phayre Street, with its brave show of shops, offering a kaleidoscopic review of jewellery, glittering silver, cut glass and brass work, or masses of rich, many-coloured stuffs and silks, each shop with a special circle of admirers.

It was the hour when offices disgorge their employes, when idlers come to lounge and stare, and between foot-passengers, trams, taxis and carts, the thoroughfare was almost impassable. During a block Mrs. Krauss suddenly roused from her condition of happy contemplation, and said, as she opened her handkerchief:

"My dear Sophy, I've got such treasures—such finds; real, old netsukes, signed, and so cheap! Do look at this delicious rabbit!" holding out a beautiful model. "Is it not too perfect, exquisitely carved, and smooth with age? And the tortoise with the little tiny one on its back—what a darling!" and she took it up and kissed it with rapture.

It puzzled Sophy to witness this extraordinary enthusiasm and then to recall the cold fact that, on her return to "Heidelberg," her aunt's interest in these ivories seemed to wane and disappear. Was there not a bowl of specimens in the drawing-room already consigned to oblivion and dust? Aunt Flora's character exhibited an amazing combination of fantastic caprice and invincible good nature.



CHAPTER XIX

CHAFF

It was Thursday, the Station holiday. A capital paper-chase had recently engaged the entire community; the pace had been unusually severe; the obstacles large and formidable—especially the notorious Log Jump—and casualties were not a few. Shafto and FitzGerald, on hot and heaving horses, had only halted for a moment at the hospitable "Finish," where refreshments were being served, as care for their precious steeds was taking them and their animals home. After an unusually long silence FitzGerald exclaimed, apropos of nothing in particular:

"So—sits the wind in that quarter?"

Shafto turned his head and met a pair of knowing Irish eyes.

"That quarter!" repeated FitzGerald, indicating the red-tiled roof of the Krausses' bungalow, where it peeped out from amid a solid mass of palms and bamboos.

"I haven't the remotest idea what you are driving at," said Shafto impatiently. "Is it a bit of dialogue in the play you are rehearsing?"

"No, me boy, that is fiction—this is fact! In my official capacity I am bound to take notes, and within the last week I have twice met you early of a morning riding with Miss Leigh—no third party visible to the naked eye. In fact, you were there before the rest of the crowd—and, of course, the early bird gets the worm!"

"And which is the worm—Miss Leigh or I?"

"Oh yes, you may try to laugh it off, but there's some reason for these early tete-a-tetes. The reason is as plain as the stick in my hand—no, I beg its pardon, the reason is uncommonly pretty."

"FitzGerald, you are talking most blatant bosh."

"Maybe I am and maybe I'm not, and, let me tell you, you're not the only string to the lady's bow; she has as many as a harp! There's Fotheringay, the A.D.C.; there's Captain Howe; there's Bernhard——"

"Bernhard's a beast," burst out Shafto.

"Naturally you would think so—it's only human nature. But Otto is a handsome man and has a fine seductive voice; and mind you, music has charms to soothe the breast, savage or otherwise; as for your prospects, you may apply to me for a testimonial of character: steady, sober——"