Miss Rosetta Salter received the strange gentleman with overpowering condescension, and spoke English in a thin, squeaky voice. In a flatteringly short time she had descended from her high horse, and accepted Shafto as a friend, revealed her age (eight years) and told him all about her French doll and her new brown boots—also from Paris. The dinner, which was announced directly after the return of Mrs. Salter, proved to be excellent, well cooked and a novelty. For the first time Shafto tasted real curry, also mango fool. The appointments were exclusively European, with the exception of a massive silver bowl, filled with purple orchids, which adorned the centre of the table. Two snowy-clad Madras servants waited with silent dexterity and conversation never flagged. Salter discoursed of chummeries and the _Blankshire_ passengers, and Mrs. Salter thoughtfully prepared the new arrival for the alarming insects of Lower Burma, whilst Rosetta, for her part, kept up an accompaniment on a high chirruping note. During a momentary pause Shafto was startled by an odd sound—an imperious, unnatural voice that called, “Tucktoo! Tucktoo! Tucktoo!” “What is it—or _who_ is it?” he inquired anxiously. “Oh, it’s only a large lizard that lives under the eaves,” explained Salter, “one of our specialities. In the rains, when he is in good voice, he is deafening.” “He brings good and bad luck,” added Mrs. Salter. “Oh, yes, that is so,” and she flipped the air with her two first fingers, a favourite gesture among Burmese women. “How do you mean luck?” Shafto asked. “If he gives seven ‘Tucktoos’ without stopping, that is luck—great big luck—but if he goes on, he brings trouble.” “Only if he stops at an odd number,” corrected the child. “I see you know all about it,” remarked the guest. “Oh, yes, our Tucktoo never goes beyond seven—I think he is old—and mother says the _nats_ are kind to us.” “The cats are kind to you!” ejaculated Shafto. “But why not?” “No, no,” hastily broke in Salter, “nats are spirits, good spirits or bad, who live in the trees; you will hear enough about them before you are a month in Burma. Their worship is the national faith.” “But I thought Buddhism——” began Shafto, and hesitated. “Oh, yes, ostensibly and ostentatiously, but wait and see.” “I am a Catholic,” announced the child abruptly. She was excessively self-conscious and anxious to show off before Shafto. “Are you really?” he said with an incredulous smile. “Oh, yes, I attend the convent school; I am learning French and dancing, I go to mass; mother goes to the pagoda festivals—mother is a heathen.” “Rosetta! Mind what you are saying,” sharply interposed Salter; “your mother’s no more a heathen than yourself.” “Rosetta is a nasty little girl,” said Mrs. Salter, rising, “she forgets herself before company, and must go away to be——” A succession of shrieks interrupted the verdict. “Oh, do forgive her, please!” implored Shafto; “I ask it as a favour, a special favour.”