Part 20 (1/2)
”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 c.o.c.k-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 muns.h.i.+ 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----”