“No, but Herr Krauss is at home now; the old cook has departed after a fearful explosion, and housekeeping is a struggle; servants are so difficult to find and deal with, especially by a strange ‘missy’ like myself.  And Herr Krauss is particular about punctuality and the plates being hot, and all that sort of thing; I have to make Russian salads, confitures and sauces, so I have really had no spare time.”

“Yes, I can imagine your hands have been pretty full.  But do you mean to tell me that you run the house?”

“I don’t exactly run it, but I do my best to drag it along—­and it’s rather awkward from my being a new-comer; pice and rupees are novelties, and everything is supposed to be in German fashion.”

“German fashion!” echoed Shafto.  “What’s that?”

“Oh, particular hours, particular food, Blutwurst, sausages, Russian salads, cakes, creams, and plenty of them.”

“Well, I must say Krauss looks sleek and well fed; he does you credit!  But don’t you ever get your Sunday off or your day out?”

“I suppose I do in a way.  I have been to dine with one or two of our neighbours, and we had some really first-rate music; and then, you see, we live at a long distance from the Cantonment and the Gymkhana.”

“But what about the car?”

“Herr Krauss uses it; he is away most of the day.”

“But you have a horse to ride?”

“Yes, there was one; rather a nice-looking little bay, but soon after I arrived, he was borrowed by a man who has taken it up to Prome.”

Mrs. Gregory had been listening to this conversation, making mental notes and setting down bad marks!  Her cousin was returning from Mandalay on the following day, and she determined that she and Milly would wait upon Mrs. Krauss, and request her to liberate this prisoner.  Mrs. Krauss was a charming, indolent, clinging sort of individual, who had latterly sunken into a somnolent existence and rarely appeared above the social surface.  Formerly she had been a brilliant figure in Rangoon society, gave excellent dinners, danced, rode and played bridge and tennis; but, by degrees, she seemed to have dropped out of things, and Mrs. Gregory remembered how, once upon a time, when riding together, she had lamented that she had no children and no particular interests, and that her energy, such as it was, was ebbing rapidly.  Of course, she had been too long in Lower Burma—­eight years of Lower Burma, merely diluted with an occasional few weeks at May Myo, was enough to undermine any woman’s mental and bodily state.

“And so your aunt has been ill?” she asked after a long pause.

“Yes, but she is much better now and very cheerful, so I was able to leave her and accept Mrs. Muller’s invitation to accompany her to this play.”

“You have seen nothing so far?”

“Well, not much, but there is lots of time.”

Mrs. Gregory glanced at the girl and, in the searching electric light, noticed that her lovely colour was already fading, the lines of the face seemed a trifle sharper; beauty is fleeting in Lower Burma.  Meanwhile Shafto, sitting so silent at the ladies’ feet, was secretly boiling with rage.