Shafto coloured guiltily. Although far from being an expert in the Burmese language, he had caught the drift of this sentence—a coarse _double entendre_, which he could not possibly interpret to a girl. Burmese plays are not always decorous; this particular performance was an odd mixture of ancient and modern. The lovers, who were, as usual, princes and princesses, played stately roles and moved about with majestic dignity and in gorgeous raiment—their prototypes dated from the days of Buddha; on the other hand, the clown and the country men, who enacted the parts of villains and devils, were essentially modern—as quick with patter songs and up-to-date local events and jokes as the cleverest music-hall artist. At intervals the weird Burmese band, with its clashing cymbals, harps and clarions, discoursed the latest Burmese operatic airs. It was one o’clock and the great bell in the heart of the Pagoda had throbbed out its long deep note, when Mrs. Gregory rose and collected her party. “I’m so sorry I can’t take you with me,” she said to Sophy. “I hope your German friends will not remain all night. However, I shall depute Mr. Shafto to look after you. Please tell your aunt that I hope to call and see her very shortly—and do not forget that you are to ride with me on Thursday morning.” As if it was likely! Then Mrs. Gregory took her departure, leaving Sophy and her companion to a _tête-à-tête_. “I think we will move up closer to your friends,” he said; “I see two empty seats behind them. Our people can’t stick this for more than three or four hours.” “How have you been getting on?” inquired Sophy, “and how do you like Burma?” “Burma suits me down to the ground; I like it most awfully. I’ve been very busy learning my job, but I’ve seen a good deal outside business hours.” “What have you seen?” “Oh, well, wrestling, tattooing and cock-fights; I have been once up the river as far as Prome, and to several native shows, including a funeral.” “How have you managed that?” “Salter, a fellow in our house, took me; the funeral was a strange affair—not a bit like ours; everyone in gala clothes, great feasting and a band in the house; altogether a lively entertainment. When a man is dying, his friends come and gather round and cheer him, and tell him of all the good deeds he has done in his lifetime. At the graveside there is an extraordinary business with a silk handkerchief, in which the nearest relation is supposed to catch and enclose the departed spirit, now in the form of a white butterfly—and dangerous to mortals for seven days and nights. I have seen a good deal of native life already.” “How lucky you are!” exclaimed the girl; “and I’ve seen nothing but Germans.” “Salter has taken me about and naturally he has extra opportunities, being married to a Burmese.” “Married to a Burmese?” echoed Sophy; her tone was incredulous.