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. So the fat old German, in spite of his wealth, had made his wife’s niece both sick nurse and house-keeper; one of these tasks was ample for any girl; Miss Leigh had been six weeks in Rangoon and had never even seen the Pagoda! “I know you are fond of riding,” he began; “do you think you could come for a gallop if I produced a pony?” “And a chaperon,” supplemented Mrs. Gregory. “I can offer my services and a mount, and I’ll call for you at seven o’clock on Thursday morning. You may come, too,” she added, turning to Shafto, “and we will go to the Pineapple Forest.” “How delightful, and how very kind of you!” said Sophy. “I am sure I can manage—as long as I am in by nine o’clock.” “But why nine o’clock, my dear Cinderella?” “Because I have to interview the cook when he returns from the bazaar. Herr Krauss is something of a gourmand and rather querulous about his food, and he often brings in one or two men to tiffin or dinner.” “A nice, amusing change,” said Shafto. “You must find old Krauss a bit monotonous. What does he talk about? Wolfram or sausages?” “He talks a good deal about my aunt—he really is devoted to her.” “Well, I’ll mark him up one for that. I suppose the guests are his own compatriots?” “Yes, they come on business, and are nearly always the same. They talk German all the time, which I cannot understand—only when they stare at me and say something about ‘Engländerin’; after dinner we have music and Herr Krauss and I play duets. His instrument is the violin—most of the neighbours are musical, first-rate musicians and so critical; I appreciate that—it keeps me up to the mark.” “I think, among them, they all keep you up to the mark,” observed Mrs. Gregory, and whatever she was about to add was abruptly interrupted by a loud, swelling, unanimous murmur of “Ah Wah, Ah Wah,” which suddenly rose from a thousand throats. This rapturous acclamation hailed the appearance of Po Sine, the star of the Burmese theatre—unsurpassed and unapproachable in either tragedy or comedy. Po Sine was nothing to look at—a thin, ordinary, little man, but endowed with genius; even those who could not understand a word he said immediately recognised the great actor. This particular play was a favourite comedy; shouts of laughter shook the audience and the encompassing walls of matting, and in this Shafto and his companion could not help joining. “I wonder what it is all about,” said Sophy. “I know it’s very amusing. What was that funny thing he said last?” she asked as the shrieks died down.