azing ear-rings; and
yet I have seen the same lady with her petticoats kilted high, standing
knee-deep in a rice cart and diving with both hands into the grain to
test its quality!"

"That is a very pretty girl with flowers in her hair, beside her,"
remarked Sophy; "look, she is nodding to you. Who is she?"

"Her name is Ma Chit; she is Mrs. Salter's cousin. Sometimes she drops
in when I am there; the Salters live close to my chummery. I have a
munshi now and I am learning Burmese."

"And--and I am learning German!"

"How do you hit it off with your uncle?"

"Please don't call him my uncle."

"Then I am answered."

Sophy laughed and coloured brilliantly.

"I suppose so. We do not coalesce; our ideas, age and country are
different; he is hard as a rock, brusque and overbearing--but amazingly
clever and energetic. He seems to hold so many threads in his hands,
to deal with such numbers of people; his correspondence is enormous;
his office, when he is at home, is surrounded and stormed by all sorts
of people--Mohammedans, Chinese, Burmese, all waiting on his good
pleasure and his nod. I scarcely see anything of him except at meals,
and then he is too much taken up with eating to have time to spare for
conversation; but we meet in one spot--music-land! He plays the
violin; we do Beethoven together and are great friends; then when the
piano closes----" she paused.

"You are enemies?"

"Not exactly enemies, but I do hate the way he gobbles his food and
bullies the servants; and then he says such rude things about
England--perhaps it's only done on purpose to make me angry? He
declares we are a wretched, rotten, played-out old country, going down
the hill as hard as we can fly. He is narrow-minded, too; so
arrogant--the Germans can do no wrong, the English can never do right.
I am telling dreadful tales, am I not? All the same, he has an English
wife, and is simply devoted to Aunt Flora; nothing is too good for her.
It is really funny to see this rough overbearing man so gentle and
thoughtful. But then, she is a dear!"

"Oh, is she?"

"You shall see for yourself. You must come to tea on Sunday. I am
sure I may invite you; Aunt Flora is so kind and sympathetic, and has a
look of mother."

"I'll come all right, if you think she'll not be _durwaza bund_."

"No, she is ever so much better, but the last few years has been more
or less an invalid."

"What is her particular illness? Is it fever?"