“His housekeeper!” repeated Shafto; “why, he told me he lived at the German Club!”

“That may be; but he has a fine house in Kokine.  It is not an uncommon situation—­that sort of temporary marriage.  Ma Chit looks after his interests, rules his household, and makes him comfortable; her people acquiesce.  All marriages are easily arranged and easily dissolved among the Burmans.  A young man may offer sweets, serenade a girl a few times; if he is acceptable, there’s a family dinner, with much chewing of betel nut, and that constitutes the ceremony!”

“What a happy-go-lucky country!” exclaimed Shafto.

“Happy, yes!  Lucky, I’m not sure!  Well now, don’t lose your way; first turn to the right, second to the left, and there is the Strand.  Good night!”

CHAPTER XII

EAST AND WEST

The first and principal sight in Rangoon is the great Shwe Dagon Pagoda, and on Sunday afternoon Shafto and his new acquaintance passed between the golden lions at its base, and slowly ascended flight after flight of steep brick steps, lined with flower-decked shrines and blocked by dense masses of worshippers, who were swarming up and down.

The temple stands in imposing majesty on a wide platform and dominates the town—­in fact, apart from the trade and business element, the Pagoda is Rangoon.  The splendid edifice is entirely encased in plates of solid gold, and the “Ti,” which rises from the inverted begging-bowl, is studded with priceless precious stones—­emeralds, rubies, sapphires and diamonds—­which flash and glitter in the sun.  These have been presented by pious pilgrims from all parts of the province and beyond; for, with the exception of the Caaba at Mecca, no earthly shrine attracts such multitudes, or receives such generous largesse.

Shafto and his companion having toiled up the steps, worn hollow by millions of feet, halted on the plateau, which was half-covered with little stalls, whose keepers were selling flowers, candles, flags, dolls, and images of Buddha—­made in Birmingham.  Here were hundreds, nay thousands of joyous gaily-clad worshippers moving to and fro, a truly brilliant pageant of passing life.  It was difficult to say which were the more strikingly dressed:  the men in brilliant turbans and silk waist cloths, or the women in satin skirts of endless pattern, their chignons wreathed with flowers, wearing a profusion of gold ornaments, and attended by many children.

“Ah, I see you are struck with the spectacle!” said Salter.  “Isn’t it an orgy of colour—­rose, orange, purple, scarlet?  There is nothing more picturesque than a Burmese crowd.”

“Yes, a great show!” rejoined Shafto; “in gala costume.  I can now understand why the national emblem is a peacock.”

As they made their way through the throng there was a clanging of melodious gongs and sounds of loud continuous chanting, whilst overhead the far-away sea breeze stirred the bells on the Ti to a silvery tinkle, tinkle.