Georgie Porgie never referred to economy in the household again.

Three months later, after the dispatch and receipt of several mysterious letters which Georgina could not understand, and hated for that reason, Georgie Porgie said that he was going away and she must return to her father’s house and stay there.

Georgina wept.  She would go with her God from the world’s end to the world’s end.  Why should she leave him?  She loved him.

‘I am only going to Rangoon,’ said Georgie Porgie.  ’I shall be back in a month, but it is safer to stay with your father.  I will leave you two hundred rupees.’

’If you go for a month, what need of two hundred?  Fifty are more than enough.  There is some evil here.  Do not go, or at least let me go with you.’

Georgie Porgie does not like to remember that scene even at this date.  In the end he got rid of Georgina by a compromise of seventy-five rupees.  She would not take more.  Then he went by steamer and rail to Rangoon.

The mysterious letters had granted him six months’ leave.  The actual flight and an idea that he might have been treacherous hurt severely at the time, but as soon as the big steamer was well out into the blue, things were easier, and Georgina’s face, and the queer little stockaded house, and the memory of the rushes of shouting dacoits by night, the cry and struggle of the first man that he had ever killed with his own hand, and a hundred other more intimate things, faded and faded out of Georgie Porgie’s heart, and the vision of approaching England took its place.  The steamer was full of men on leave, all rampantly jovial souls who had shaken off the dust and sweat of Upper Burma and were as merry as schoolboys.  They helped Georgie Porgie to forget.

Then came England with its luxuries and decencies and comforts, and Georgie Porgie walked in a pleasant dream upon pavements of which he had nearly forgotten the ring, wondering why men in their senses ever left Town.  He accepted his keen delight in his furlough as the reward of his services.  Providence further arranged for him another and greater delight—­all the pleasures of a quiet English wooing, quite different from the brazen businesses of the East, when half the community stand back and bet on the result, and the other half wonder what Mrs. So-and-So will say to it.

It was a pleasant girl and a perfect summer, and a big country-house near Petworth where there are acres and acres of purple heather and high-grassed water-meadows to wander through.  Georgie Porgie felt that he had at last found something worth the living for, and naturally assumed that the next thing to do was to ask the girl to share his life in India.  She, in her ignorance, was willing to go.  On this occasion there was no bartering with a village headman.  There was a fine middle-class wedding in the country, with a stout Papa and a weeping Mamma, and a best-man in purple and fine linen, and six snub-nosed girls from the Sunday School to throw roses on the path between the tombstones up to the Church door.  The local paper described the affair at great length, even down to giving the hymns in full.  But that was because the Direction were starving for want of material.