“I should hope not, indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Milward.  “My cousin Mary Gregory must have an eye on my young friend—­I’ll see to that.  I shall be stopping with Mary for a few days before going up the river; but I think Sophy will be all right.  After all, Mrs. Krauss is her own aunt.”

If Shafto and Sophy had become friendly over games, discussions and little special teas with Mrs. Milward, Bernhard cemented his acquaintance by means of their mutual love of music; but it seemed to the girl that, after he had heard her destination, Herr Bernhard’s manner had undergone a subtle change.  The protegee of a wealthy woman—­who wore wonderful rings and priceless pearls and carried herself as a high-born dame—­was another person from the mere transitory companion who, once at Rangoon, would be handed over to Karl Krauss, her uncle—­incredible!  Uncle by marriage—­yes, but still an inmate of his home.

“And so I hear you are niece to Herr Krauss,” he began abruptly, as he lounged against the bulwarks; “I know him well.”

“And my aunt?”

“Yes, I’ve met her two or three times; she must have been splendidly handsome once; now she looks broken up—­it’s the climate.  No woman should remain in Lower Burma for eight years without a change.”

“I did not know the climate was so bad; I’m afraid I know very little about Burma; it seems so far away—­much farther off than India.”

“Yes, and a far more beautiful country—­a land flowing with rivers and riches, and full of charming people, who live for the day, like so many butterflies, and do no work.”

“Then who does work?”

“The Madrassi, the Sikh, the Chinese, and, above all, the European.  Rangoon has an enormous trade; I wonder what you will think of it?”

“I feel sure that I shall like it; I have always longed to see the East.”

“Ah, that is a common wish—­the sun rises in the East!  We Germans like the East—­the East likes us. We own Burma!”

After a moment’s pause, which gave his companion time to digest this surprising statement, he went on, “Have you ever seen Herr Krauss?”

“No! when my aunt came home he always went to Germany—­to Frankfort, I think.”

“So his acquaintance has yet to be made; it is what you call a pleasure in store.  I wonder what you will think of the unknown uncle; perhaps some day you will tell me?” Then he gave an odd laugh and walked away, still laughing.

Bernhard’s place was speedily filled by another man.  Most people considered Miss Leigh the beauty of the ship, but this novel and agreeable prominence had not spoiled her and she was always ready to oblige—­to accompany a song, amuse the children, pick up and rectify a piece of knitting, promenade the deck, play quoits, or dance.