One evening, as she waited thus, in the warm, damp dusk, FitzGerald in uniform clattered by; he caught sight of Sophy out of what is called “the tail of the eye,” and pulled up so suddenly as to throw his horse upon its haunches.

“Miss Leigh!” he exclaimed.  “Yes, it is!  May I ask why you find yourself among the Seven Dials, or devils, of Rangoon?”

“Oh, Aunt Flora comes to Ah Shee’s shop hunting for ivories; she is collecting netsukes.”

“Netsukes!” he repeated; “netsukes here!”

“Oh yes, and such good ones—­the best in Burma; but it’s a horrible place, and as to the odours!” and she made a gesture expressive of disgust.

“Yes, by Jove, the Chinese beat all the world in stinks; but I say, Miss Leigh, try to persuade your aunt to hunt elsewhere for ivories—­this part of the world is unhealthy.”

“I’m not surprised at that.”

“Be advised by me and make this your last visit to this chinky shop.  Well, I must be shoving on,” and he trotted away.

A moment later Mrs. Krauss emerged and, by the quivering eye of an electric lamp, Sophy noticed that she looked strangely animated—­indeed almost radiant.  No doubt she had secured some wonderful prize.

“Who were you talking to, my dear?” she asked.

“Mr. FitzGerald; he was so surprised to see me and says we ought not to come here—­the place is unhealthy and, indeed, Aunt Flora, I wonder you can stand the reek of Ah Shee’s den for so long without feeling horribly sick.”

“Oh, Mr. FitzGerald—­the police-officer?  Yes, he is right; it is a low neighbourhood and the air is poisonous, but I’ve managed to get what I wanted,” and she held up a pocket handkerchief bulging with ivories.  “I won’t have to come again for ages and ages.”

Meanwhile Ah Shee and son had shuffled off to summon the chauffeur, and the car now appeared round the corner of the street, looking like some crouching black monster, with round, fiery eyes.  Attended by the two obsequious Chinamen, Mrs. Krauss and her niece entered the motor and were speedily borne away.  For a considerable time the former did not open her lips, but lay back in her corner in an attitude of contented lassitude.

They made their way homewards through the teeming bazaar and brilliantly illuminated Phayre Street, with its brave show of shops, offering a kaleidoscopic review of jewellery, glittering silver, cut glass and brass work, or masses of rich, many-coloured stuffs and silks, each shop with a special circle of admirers.

It was the hour when offices disgorge their employes, when idlers come to lounge and stare, and between foot-passengers, trams, taxis and carts, the thoroughfare was almost impassable.  During a block Mrs. Krauss suddenly roused from her condition of happy contemplation, and said, as she opened her handkerchief: 

“My dear Sophy, I’ve got such treasures—­such finds; real, old netsukes, signed, and so cheap!  Do look at this delicious rabbit!” holding out a beautiful model.  “Is it not too perfect, exquisitely carved, and smooth with age?  And the tortoise with the little tiny one on its back—­what a darling!” and she took it up and kissed it with rapture.