MA CHIT

Although Shafto had many acquaintances and continual engagements, he never forgot his first friends, the Salters, and still strolled over of an evening, accompanied by Roscoe, to sit in the veranda, talk, smoke, and listen, until his companions began to discuss such abstract questions as, “What is the real driving force of life?” or to argue on the philosophy of Buddhism, or Herbert Spencer’s “Descriptive Sociology” and the “Unknowable.”

When conversation turned in this direction Shafto felt entirely out of his element and slipped indoors to play games with Rosetta or her mother.  Recently it had struck him that Ma Chit appeared to have become more or less a permanent member of the establishment, being so constantly with her cousin.  She took an enthusiastic interest in Rosetta’s brick-building, superintended and sharply criticised Mee Lay’s games of dominoes, and even suggested herself as a substitute.  Burmese dominoes are black, with brass points, and held in the hand like cards.  Mrs. Slater, a keen and clever opponent, indignantly refused to relinquish her post to her relative, and was radiant and triumphant when she carried off a stake of eight annas.  Shafto would have enjoyed these matches, and this contest of wits and luck, had Ma Chit been elsewhere, instead of leaning on his chair, looking over his hand, laughing, throwing quick glances, and making idiotic remarks.  Once he had been not a little startled to find her tiny brown fingers inserted between his collar and his neck!  He shook them off impatiently; he hated such practical jokes, and said so in no measured terms.

More than once, he had been solemnly assured, the fascination of this girl’s personality worked like a charm, and it had become disagreeably evident that she wished to cast a spell over him.  How often had her bright black eyes imparted an alluring tale!  However, he felt himself well protected by an impenetrable shield on which was inscribed the name of “Sophy,” and Ma Chit gracefully posturing with tingling bangles and twittering talk, had no more effect upon her prey than on a stone image.  No; although she hung over him, tapped him with too eloquent fingers, whispered jokes in his ear, and filled his nostrils with an exquisite and voluptuous perfume, she was powerless!

One evening he happened to be playing chess with Salter; Roscoe was at pwe; Mee Lay was putting Rosetta to bed, but Ma Chit was present, listening, smiling, and smoking her white cheroot.  At the conclusion of a close and hard-fought game, in which Shafto was victorious she leant over, gazed into his eyes, and stroked his face with two caressing fingers.  As he drew back quickly, she burst out laughing and exclaimed: 

“But why are you so shy, dear boy?  Always so shy—­so odd and so foolish?”

Shafto found the siren undeniably pretty and seductive, but at the same time irrepressible and odious.  He hated her catlike litheness, her undulating walk, and the unmistakable invitation of her whole personality.