“Yes.  At one time it was quite a common thing.  Mrs. Salter—­her real name is Mee Lay—­is sitting over there in about the fifth row back, behind the fellow with the scarlet handkerchief twisted round his head.  Presently you must turn and look at her.  She is a nice, cheery woman, and Salter is an interesting, original sort of man.  I dine with them now and then.  Mee Lay is uncommonly businesslike—­has a good deal of land and a flourishing rice concern.”

“She has?  How amazing!”

“I see you don’t know much of Burma yet.”

“No; so far I am only acquainted with the bazaar prices, the gorgeous flowers, delicious fruit and futurist insects!”

“Well, women do most of the business and do it well; the men are a lazy, loafing lot; very genial and sporting, fond of cock-fighting and gambling—­absolutely regardless of expense or debt.  Mrs. Salter is rich; if you will look round now you will see her—­the little woman with the yellow fan and diamond comb; notice her blazing ear-rings; and yet I have seen the same lady with her petticoats kilted high, standing knee-deep in a rice cart and diving with both hands into the grain to test its quality!”

“That is a very pretty girl with flowers in her hair, beside her,” remarked Sophy; “look, she is nodding to you.  Who is she?”

“Her name is Ma Chit; she is Mrs. Salter’s cousin.  Sometimes she drops in when I am there; the Salters live close to my chummery.  I have a munshi now and I am learning Burmese.”

“And—­and I am learning German!”

“How do you hit it off with your uncle?”

“Please don’t call him my uncle.”

“Then I am answered.”

Sophy laughed and coloured brilliantly.

“I suppose so.  We do not coalesce; our ideas, age and country are different; he is hard as a rock, brusque and overbearing—­but amazingly clever and energetic.  He seems to hold so many threads in his hands, to deal with such numbers of people; his correspondence is enormous; his office, when he is at home, is surrounded and stormed by all sorts of people—­Mohammedans, Chinese, Burmese, all waiting on his good pleasure and his nod.  I scarcely see anything of him except at meals, and then he is too much taken up with eating to have time to spare for conversation; but we meet in one spot—­music-land!  He plays the violin; we do Beethoven together and are great friends; then when the piano closes——­” she paused.

“You are enemies?”

“Not exactly enemies, but I do hate the way he gobbles his food and bullies the servants; and then he says such rude things about England—­perhaps it’s only done on purpose to make me angry?  He declares we are a wretched, rotten, played-out old country, going down the hill as hard as we can fly.  He is narrow-minded, too; so arrogant—­the Germans can do no wrong, the English can never do right.  I am telling dreadful tales, am I not?  All the same, he has an English wife, and is simply devoted to Aunt Flora; nothing is too good for her.  It is really funny to see this rough overbearing man so gentle and thoughtful.  But then, she is a dear!”