The various other girls on board, with whom she was popular, had assured her of the joys awaiting her and them in Rangoon.  Dances, picknics, concerts, paper-chases—­in short, no end of gaiety—­all to be enjoyed in that yet unknown and romantic country, “the Land of the Golden Umbrella.”  Often the girls sat in one another’s cabins, discussed and described frocks and beautiful toilettes, at present unseen and packed away in the baggage-room.  Also they talked over their fellow-passengers—­not forgetting the young men—­and when Shafto’s name was mentioned, an occasional sly glance or hint would be thrown at Sophy, of which she endeavoured to appear serenely unconscious.

* * * * * *

Early one morning the passengers awoke to find themselves at anchor in Colombo harbour, and the soft warm air brought them a delicious whiff of the celebrated cinnamon gardens.  Many were landing for Southern India and a quantity of cargo had to be discharged.  As this was bound to be a lengthy process, the remnant who were bound for Rangoon had nearly a whole day ashore.  Mrs. Milward and maid, and her young friends Miss Leigh and Mr. Shafto, Herr Bernhard, the Pomeroys, Mrs. Lacy and several of her satellites, breakfasted at the Galle Face Hotel, and subsequently made trips in rickshaws, shopped in the bazaar, and had afternoon tea at Mount Lavinia.

It was, as everyone agreed, a most delightful break.  On that same evening, as they steamed out into the moonlit Bay of Bengal, Sophy and Shafto paced the half-deserted deck, gazing on the Southern Cross, and the former suddenly said: 

“That was our last stopping-place.  When I leave the Blankshire, where I have been so much at home, I shall feel rather astray.”

“So you would like a home on the rolling deep?” suggested her companion.

“No, indeed; shall I ever forget that day we had off Crete?  But I have never been long away from mother; I am going to a new country, a new life, and almost new relations—­it all seems so strange and vague.”

“But your aunt cannot be a stranger,” suggested Shafto.  “You know her, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes; but I have not seen her for eight years.  The last time she was over, she stayed with us for a few weeks.  I remember her as handsome and beautifully dressed, with wonderful toilet arrangements in ivory and silver, and bottles of heavy Indian scent.  She was very kind and had such soft caressing manners, and gave us lots of chocolate and nice presents.  I recollect a beautiful emerald ring she wore—­but I cannot recall the colour of her eyes.”

“Oh, well, that oversight will soon be repaired!”

“Aunt Flora was fond of gaiety and theatres; we lived in Chelsea, and as our small house could hardly hold her big boxes and we had no telephone, she went to the Carlton, where she was more in the middle of things, and could entertain her friends from India and Burma—­but she came to see us two or three times a week.”