“And what do you think about Buddhism in Burma?” inquired Shafto.

“Buddhism will hold its ground, in spite of many converts among the Karens.  The Burmans are a sunny, happy people, as you see, who hope for a good time here, and a good time in the worlds to come.  They held the same expectations and creed, and wore the same clothes, two thousand years ago; time does not appear to touch them; they are as gay and irresponsible as so many butterflies.  You know Kipling’s lines to Rangoon?”

Before Shafto could reply, Salter quoted in a sonorous monotone: 

  ’Hail, Mother!  Do they call me rich in trade? 
    Little care I, but hear the shorn priest drone,
  And watch my silk-clad lovers, man by maid,
    Laugh ‘neath my Shwe Dagon.’

“From the ‘Song of the Cities.’  Rather appropriate to the occasion, eh?”

“Yes, fits it to a T,” assented Shafto, as his eye wandered over the vast assemblage on the plateau, talking, joking, laughing, smoking, absolutely content with the day, without a thought for the morrow.

The atmosphere felt heavy with the scent of incense, flowers, and cheroots; little bells still tinkled gaily and the air was full of silver music.

“Now I should like to show you the reverse of this scene,” said Salter; “it won’t take you long,” and he led his companion away to a solitary, deserted place at the rear of the Pagoda.

“Here,” he said, indicating some dilapidated moss-grown stones, “are a number of totally-forgotten English graves.  There was desperate fighting all round this very plateau when we first came to this country, some seventy odd years ago; these dead, forgotten pioneer fellows struck a stout blow for the British flag.  British and German trade, thanks to them, have flourished like a green bay tree; ships and railways carry all before them, and the days of the caravan are numbered.  Well, now we shall move on to the Royal lakes and Dalhousie Park, and see all we can, for, after to-day, you won’t have much spare time for doing the tourist—­you will be a cog in the machine.”

The scene presented by the Royal lakes proved an uncompromising contrast to that at the Pagoda; save for the Eastern background of palms and bamboos the gathering might have been in London.  Here were motor-cars, smart carriages, pretty women wearing the latest fashions, men in flannels and tweeds; there was but little colour in their clothes—­or their complexions—­no brilliant orange or flaming scarlet, no bells, gongs, buoyant vitality, or merry laughter; the community were languidly discussing the mail news, the latest bridge tournament, and the approaching race meeting.  By the lakes you encountered Europe—­more particularly Great Britain.  At the Shwe Dagon you found yourself in touch with an older world and face to face with the silken East!

CHAPTER XIII

“KEEP AN EYE UPON HER”