During a momentary pause Shafto was startled by an odd sound—­an imperious, unnatural voice that called, “Tucktoo!  Tucktoo!  Tucktoo!”

“What is it—­or who is it?” he inquired anxiously.

“Oh, it’s only a large lizard that lives under the eaves,” explained Salter, “one of our specialities.  In the rains, when he is in good voice, he is deafening.”

“He brings good and bad luck,” added Mrs. Salter.  “Oh, yes, that is so,” and she flipped the air with her two first fingers, a favourite gesture among Burmese women.

“How do you mean luck?” Shafto asked.

“If he gives seven ‘Tucktoos’ without stopping, that is luck—­great big luck—­but if he goes on, he brings trouble.”

“Only if he stops at an odd number,” corrected the child.

“I see you know all about it,” remarked the guest.

“Oh, yes, our Tucktoo never goes beyond seven—­I think he is old—­and mother says the nats are kind to us.”

“The cats are kind to you!” ejaculated Shafto.  “But why not?”

“No, no,” hastily broke in Salter, “nats are spirits, good spirits or bad, who live in the trees; you will hear enough about them before you are a month in Burma.  Their worship is the national faith.”

“But I thought Buddhism——­” began Shafto, and hesitated.

“Oh, yes, ostensibly and ostentatiously, but wait and see.”

“I am a Catholic,” announced the child abruptly.

She was excessively self-conscious and anxious to show off before Shafto.

“Are you really?” he said with an incredulous smile.

“Oh, yes, I attend the convent school; I am learning French and dancing, I go to mass; mother goes to the pagoda festivals—­mother is a heathen.”

“Rosetta!  Mind what you are saying,” sharply interposed Salter; “your mother’s no more a heathen than yourself.”

“Rosetta is a nasty little girl,” said Mrs. Salter, rising, “she forgets herself before company, and must go away to be——­”

A succession of shrieks interrupted the verdict.

“Oh, do forgive her, please!” implored Shafto; “I ask it as a favour, a special favour.”

Meanwhile Rosetta clung to her mother apostrophising her in an unknown tongue, then with piercing screams, entirely regardless of her beautiful clean frock, she flung herself flat upon the floor.

If Shafto had been inclined to meditation, he might have reflected on the future of the offspring of two such divergent countries as the West Riding of Yorkshire and Pegu.  At one moment the prim, well-mannered English girl; the next, an impulsive, emotional daughter of the Far East.  When she grew to woman’s estate, which of the races would predominate?

Meanwhile, as Rosetta lay prone and kicking upon the dhurri, her father murmured apologetically: 

“When the lassie is a bit over-fired and excited, she doesn’t know what she is saying.”