Herr Krauss was seldom at home, but, when in residence, his personality obtruded itself in all directions, and it was surprising to Sophy that he never noticed any cause for anxiety in his wife’s appearance, she looked so ill and emaciated; it was true that he was preoccupied with important affairs, and that he only saw her of an evening when the lights were shaded.  She still appeared in the afternoon and at dinner, particularly if they were alone.  When she received visitors, especially her German neighbours, Sophy felt exceedingly uncomfortable.  It seemed to her—­although this might be imagination—­that the ladies exchanged coughs and significant glances, and noticed the trembling hand with which Mrs. Krauss helped herself to cake, her sudden lapses into silence, her abrupt interruptions and cavernous yawns.  For years Mrs. Krauss had been at home once a week to her German neighbours.  They are a gregarious nation, and the “Kaffee-Gesellschaft”—­an afternoon affair, beginning at four o’clock—­is greatly beloved by German women.  Here they enjoy strong coffee, chocolate flavoured with vanilla and whipped cream, and every description of rich cake.  These coffee parties are generally an orgy of scandal, and that at “Heidelberg” was no exception.  Whether Mrs. Krauss was well or ill, the guests never failed to arrive.  It was a standing institution and enjoyed their approval and countenance.

One bright hope upheld Sophy; Herr Krauss now talked of returning home—­that is, to Germany.

“Business is booming, my dear old lady; I shall close down, and we will all depart.  You have been in Burma too long, but in six months we shall be aboard the mail boat and watch the gold Pagoda gradually sinking out of sight.  I shall take a handsome place in the neighbourhood of Frankfort, and entertain all my good friends.  Then we will make music, and eat, drink, and be merry.”

His talk was invariably in this hopeful strain; he never exhibited the least anxiety with regard to his wife’s illness; it had become her normal condition, and he spoke of it as “that confounded neuralgia” and cursed the Burmese climate.

Sophy listened and marvelled, and yet she herself had been equally dense.  Neuralgia covers various infirmities, just as the cloak of charity covers a multitude of sins.  She had become excessively sensitive and suspicious, a sort of domestic detective—­a post that was by no means to her taste.  She had thought long and earnestly over the situation, and from her reflections emerged the solid word “Duty.”  It was her duty to fight for her aunt, to contend against the demon drug—­and fight she did.  Oh, if she could only maintain the struggle until her charge was en route home, what a victory!

Mrs. Krauss never alluded to her illness—­a remarkable contrast to many invalids; but one afternoon, as Sophy sat beside her in the dimly-lit lounge, she suddenly broke an unusually long silence: