No More Learning

What horrible creatures! What ARE they? ’

They’re only water-buffaloes. They come from the village up there. ’


‘Buffaloes? ’



‘Not wild buffaloes — bison, we call those. They’re just a kind of cattle the Bunnans
keep. I say, they’ve given you a nasty shock. I’m sorry. ’

She was still clinging closely to his arm, and he could feel her shaking. He looked down,
but he could not see her face, only the top of her head, hatless, with yellow hair as short
as a boy’s. And he could see one of the hands on his arm. It was long, slender, youthful,
with the mottled wrist of a schoolgirl. It was several years since he had seen such a hand.
He became conscious of the soft, youthful body pressed against his own, and the warmth
breathing out of it; whereat something seemed to thaw and grow warm within him.

‘It’s all right, they’re gone,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to be frightened of. ’

The girl was recovering from her fright, and she stood a little away from him, with one
hand still on his arm. ‘I’m all right,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing. I’m not hurt. They didn’t
touch me. It was only their looking so awful. ’

‘They’re quite hannless really. Their horns are set so far back that they can’t gore you.
They’re very stupid brutes. They only pretend to show fight when they’ve got calves. ’

They had stood apart now, and a slight embarrassment came over them both immediately.
Flory had already turned himself sidelong to keep his birthmarked cheek away from her.
He said:

‘I say, this is a queer sort of introduction! I haven’t asked yet how you got here.
Wherever did you come from — if it’s not rude to ask? ’

‘I just came out of my uncle’s garden. It seemed such a nice morning, I thought I’d go for
a walk. And then those dreadful things came after me. I’m quite new to this country, you
see. ’

‘Your uncle? Oh, of course! You’re Mr Lackersteen’s niece. We heard you were coming.
I say, shall we get out on to the maidan? There’ll be a path somewhere. What a start for
your first morning in Kyauktada! This’ll give you rather a bad impression of Burma, I’m
afraid. ’



‘Oh no; only it’s all rather strange. How thick these bushes grow! All kind of twisted
together and foreign-looking. You could get lost here in a moment. Is that what they call
jungle? ’

‘Scrub jungle. Burma’s mostly jungle — a green, unpleasant land, I call it. I wouldn’t walk
through that grass if I were you. The seeds get into your stockings and work their way
into your skin. ’

He let the girl walk ahead of him, feeling easier when she could not see his face. She was
tallish for a girl, slender, and wearing a lilac-coloured cotton frock. From the way she
moved her limbs he did not think she could be much past twenty. He had not noticed her
face yet, except to see that she wore round tortoise-shell spectacles, and that her hair was
as short as his own. He had never seen a woman with cropped hair before, except in the
illustrated papers.

As they emerged on to the maidan he stepped level with her, and she turned to face him.
Her face was oval, with delicate, regular features; not beautiful, perhaps, but it seemed so
there, in Burma, where all Englishwomen are yellow and thin. He turned his head sharply
aside, though the birthmark was away from her. He could not bear her to see his worn
face too closely. He seemed to feel the withered skin round his eyes as though it had been
a wound. But he remembered that he had shaved that morning, and it gave him courage.
He said:

‘I say, you must be a bit shaken up after this business. Would you like to come into my
place and rest a few minutes before you go home? It’s rather late to be out of doors
without a hat, too. ’

‘Oh, thank you, I would,’ the girl said. She could not, he thought, know anything about
Indian notions of propriety. ‘Is this your house here? ’

‘Yes. We must go round the front way. I’ll have the servants get a sunshade for you. This
sun’s dangerous for you, with your short hair. ’

They walked up the garden path. Flo was frisking round them and trying to draw
attention to herself. She always barked at strange Orientals, but she liked the smell of a



European. The sun was growing stronger. A wave of blackcurrant scent flowed from the
petunias beside the path, and one of the pigeons fluttered to the earth, to spring
immediately into the air again as Flo made a grab at it. Flory and the girl stopped with
one consent, to look at the flowers. A pang of unreasonable happiness had gone through
them both.

‘You really mustn’t go out in this sun without a hat on,’ he repeated, and somehow there
was an intimacy in saying it. He could not help referring to her short hair somehow, it
seemed to him so beautiful. To speak of it was like touching it with his hand.

‘Took, your knee’s bleeding,’ the girl said. ‘Did you do that when you were coming to
help me? ’

There was a slight trickle of blood, which was drying, purple, on his khaki stocking. ‘It’s
nothing,’ he said, but neither of them felt at that moment that it was nothing. They began
chattering with extraordinary eagerness about the flowers. The girl ‘adored’ flowers, she
said. And Flory led her up the path, talking garrulously about one plant and another.

‘Took how these phloxes grow. They go on blooming for six months in this country.
They can’t get too much sun. I think those yellow ones must be almost the colour of
primroses. I haven’t seen a primrose for fifteen years, nor a wallflower, either. Those
zinnias are fine, aren’t they? — like painted flowers, with those wonderful dead colours.
These are African marigolds. They’re coarse things, weeds almost, but you can’t help
liking them, they’re so vivid and strong. Indians have an extraordinary affection for them;
wherever Indians have been you find marigolds growing, even years afterwards when the
jungle has buried every other trace of them. But I wish you’d come into the veranda and
see the orchids. I’ve some I must show that are just like bells of gold — but literally like
gold. And they smell of honey, almost overpoweringly. That’s about the only merit of
this beastly country, it’s good for flowers. I hope you’re fond of gardening? It’s our
greatest consolation, in this country. ’

‘Oh, I simply adore gardening,’ the girl said.


They went into the veranda. Ko S’la had hurriedly put on his ingyi and his best pink silk
gaungbaung, and he appeared from within the house with a tray on which were a decanter



of gin, glasses and a box of cigarettes. He laid them on the table, and, eyeing the girl half
apprehensively, put his hands flat together and shikoed.


‘I expect it’s no use offering you a drink at this hour of the morning? ’ Flory said. ‘I can
never get it into my servant’s head that SOME people can exist without gin before
breakfast. ’

He added himself to the number by waving away the drink Ko S’ la offered him. The girl
had sat down in the wicker chair that Ko S’la had set out for her at the end of the veranda.
The dark-leaved orchids hung behind her head, with gold trusses of blossom, breathing
out warm honey-scent. Flory was standing against the veranda rail, half facing the girl,
but keeping his birthmarked cheek hidden.

‘What a perfectly divine view you have from here,’ she said as she looked down the
hillside.

‘Yes, isn’t it? Splendid, in this yellow light, before the sun gets going. I love that sombre
yellow colour the maidan has, and those gold mohur trees, like blobs of crimson. And
those hills at the horizon, almost black. My camp is on the other side of those hills,’ he
added.

The girl, who was long-sighted, took off her spectacles to look into the distance. He
noticed that her eyes were very clear pale blue, paler than a harebell. And he noticed the
smoothness of the skin round her eyes, like a petal, almost. It reminded him of his age
and his haggard face again, so that he turned a little more away from her. But he said on
impulse:

‘I say, what a bit of luck you coming to Kyauktada! You can’t imagine the difference it
makes to us to see a new face in these places. After months of our own miserable society,
and an occasional official on his rounds and American globe-trotters skipping up the
Irrawaddy with cameras. I suppose you’ve come straight from England? ’

‘Well, not England exactly. I was living in Paris before I came out here. My mother was
an artist, you see. ’



‘Paris! Have you really lived in Paris? By Jove, just fancy coming from Paris to
Kyauktada! Do you know, it’s positively difficult, in a hole like this, to believe that there
ARE such places as Paris. ’

‘Do you like Paris? ’ she said.

‘I’ve never even seen it. But, good Lord, how I’ve imagined it! Paris — it’s all a kind of
jumble of pictures in my mind; cafes and boulevards and artists’ studios and Villon and
Baudelaire and Maupassant all mixed up together. You don’t know how the names of
those European towns sound to us, out here. And did you really live in Paris? Sitting in
cafes with foreign art students, drinking white wine and talking about Marcel Proust? ’

‘Oh, that kind of thing, I suppose,’ said the girl, laughing.

‘What differences you’ll find here! It’s not white wine and Marcel Proust here. Whisky
and Edgar Wallace more likely. But if you ever want books, you might find something
you liked among mine. There’s nothing but tripe in the Club library. But of course I’m
hopelessly behind the times with my books. I expect you’ll have read everything under
the sun. ’

‘Oh no. But of course I simply adore reading,’ the girl said.

‘What it means to meet somebody who cares for books! I mean books worth reading, not
that garbage in the Club libraries. I do hope you’ll forgive me if I overwhelm you with
talk. When I meet somebody who’s heard that books exist, I’m afraid I go off like a bottle
of warm beer. It’s a fault you have to pardon in these countries. ’

‘Oh, but I love talking about books. I think reading is so wonderful. I mean, what would
life be without it? It’s such a — such a — ’

‘Such a private Alsatia. Yes — ’

They plunged into an enormous and eager conversation, first about books, then about
shooting, in which the girl seemed to have an interest and about which she persuaded
Flory to talk. She was quite thrilled when he described the murder of an elephant which
he had perpetrated some years earlier. Flory scarcely noticed, and perhaps the girl did not



either, that it was he who did all the talking. He could not stop himself, the joy of
chattering was so great. And the girl was in a mood to listen. After all, he had saved her
from the buffalo, and she did not yet believe that those monstrous brutes could be
hannless; for the moment he was almost a hero in her eyes. When one does get any credit
in this life, it is usually for something that one has not done. It was one of those times
when the conversation flows so easily, so naturally, that one could go on talking forever.
But suddenly, their pleasure evaporated, they started and fell silent. They had noticed that
they were no longer alone.

At the other end of the veranda, between the rails, a coal-black moustachioed face was
peeping with enonnous curiosity. It belonged to old Sammy, the ‘Mug’ cook. Behind him
stood Ma Pu, Ma Yi, Ko S’la’s four eldest children, an unclaimed naked child, and two
old women who had come down from the village upon the news that an ‘Ingaleikma’ was
on view. Like carved teak statues with footlong cigars stuck in their wooden faces, the
two old creatures gazed at the ‘Ingaleikma’ as English yokels might gaze at a Zulu
warrior in full regalia.

‘Those people . . . ’ the girl said uncomfortably, looking towards them.

Sammy, seeing himself detected, looked very guilty and pretended to be rearranging his
pagri. The rest of the audience were a little abashed, except for the two wooden-faced old
women.

‘Dash their cheek! ’ Flory said. A cold pang of disappointment went through him. After
all, it would not do for the girl to stay on his veranda any longer. Simultaneously both he
and she had remembered that they were total strangers. Her face had turned a little pink.
She began putting on her spectacles.

‘I’m afraid an English girl is rather a novelty to these people,’ he said. ‘They don’t mean
any hann. Go away! ’ he added angrily, waving his hand at the audience, whereupon they
vanished.

‘Do you know, if you don’t mind, I think I ought to be going,’ the girl said. She had stood
up. ‘I’ve been out quite a long time.
They may be wondering where I’ve got to. ’



‘Must you really? It’s quite early. I’ll see that you don’t have to go home bareheaded in
the sun. ’


‘I ought really — ’ she began again.

She stopped, looking at the doorway. Ma Hla May was emerging on to the veranda.

Ma Hla May came forward with her hand on her hip. She had come from within the
house, with a calm air that asserted her right to be there. The two girls stood face to face,
less than six feet apart.

No contrast could have been stranger; the one faintly coloured as an apple-blossom, the
other dark and garish, with a gleam almost metallic on her cylinder of ebony hair and the
salmon-pink silk of her longyi. Flory thought he had never noticed before how dark Ma
Hla May’s face was, and how outlandish her tiny, stiff body, straight as a soldier’s, with
not a curve in it except the vase-like curve of her hips. He stood against the veranda rail
and watched the two girls, quite disregarded. For the best part of a minute neither of them
could take her eyes from the other; but which found the spectacle more grotesque, more
incredible, there is no saying.

Ma Hla May turned her face round to Flory, with her black brows, thin as pencil lines,
drawn together. ‘Who is this woman? ’ she demanded sullenly.

He answered casually, as though giving an order to a servant:

‘Go away this instant. If you make any trouble I will afterwards take a bamboo and beat
you till not one of your ribs is whole. ’

Ma Hla May hesitated, shrugged her small shoulders and disappeared. And the other,
gazing after her, said curiously:

‘Was that a man or a woman? ’

‘A woman,’ he said. ‘One of the servants’ wives, I believe. She came to ask about the
laundry, that was all. ’



‘Oh, is THAT what Burmese women are like? They ARE queer little creatures! I saw a
lot of them on my way up here in the train, but do you know, I thought they were all
boys. They’re just like a kind of Dutch doll, aren’t they? ’

She had begun to move towards the veranda steps, having lost interest in Ma Hla May
now that she had disappeared. He did not stop her, for he thought Ma Hla May quite
capable of coming back and making a scene. Not that it mattered much, for neither girl
knew a word of the other’s language. He called to Ko S’la, and Ko S’la came running
with a big oiled-silk umbrella with bamboo ribs. He opened it respectfully at the foot of
the steps and held it over the girl’s head as she came down. Flory went with them as far
as the gate. They stopped to shake hands, he turning a little sideways in the strong
sunlight, hiding his birthmark.

‘My fellow here will see you home. It was ever so kind of you to come in. I can’t tell you
how glad I am to have met you. You’ll make such a difference to us here in Kyauktada. ’

‘Good-bye, Mr — oh, how funny! I don’t even know your name. ’

‘Flory, John Flory. And yours — Miss Lackersteen, is it? ’

‘Yes. Elizabeth. Good-bye, Mr Flory. And thank you EVER so much. That awful buffalo.
You quite saved my life. ’

‘It was nothing. I hope I shall see you at the Club this evening? I expect your uncle and
aunt will be coming down. Good-bye for the time being, then. ’

He stood at the gate, watching them as they went. Elizabeth — lovely name, too rare
nowadays. He hoped she spelt it with a Z. Ko S’la trotted after her at a queer
uncomfortable gait, reaching the umbrella over her head and keeping his body as far
away from her as possible. A cool breath of wind blew up the hill. It was one of those
momentary winds that blow sometimes in the cold weather in Burma, coming from
nowhere, filling one with thirst and with nostalgia for cold sea-pools, embraces of
mermaids, waterfalls, caves of ice. It rustled through the wide domes of the gold mohur
trees, and fluttered the fragments of the anonymous letter that Flory had thrown over the
gate half an hour earlier.



CHAPTER 7


Elizabeth lay on the sofa in the Lackersteen’s drawing-room, with her feet up and a
cushion behind her head, reading Michael Arlen’s These Channing People. In a general
way Michael Arlen was her favourite author, but she was inclined to prefer William J.
Locke when she wanted something serious.

The drawing-room was a cool, light-coloured room with lime-washed walls a yard thick;
it was large, but seemed smaller than it was, because of a litter of occasional tables and
Benares brassware ornaments. It smelt of chintz and dying flowers. Mrs Lackersteen was
upstairs, sleeping. Outside, the servants lay silent in their quarters, their heads tethered to
their wooden pillows by the death-like sleep of midday. Mr Lackersteen, in his small
wooden office down the road, was probably sleeping too. No one stirred except
Elizabeth, and the chokra who pulled the punkah outside Mrs Lackersteen’s bedroom,
lying on his back with one heel in the loop of the rope.

Elizabeth was just turned twenty-two, and was an orphan. Her father had been less of a
drunkard than his brother Tom, but he was a man of similar stamp. He was a tea-broker,
and his fortunes fluctuated greatly, but he was by nature too optimistic to put money
aside in prosperous phases. Elizabeth’s mother had been an incapable, half-baked,
vapouring, self-pitying woman who shirked ah the nonnal duties of life on the strength of
sensibilities which she did not possess. After messing about for years with such things as
Women’s Suffrage and Higher Thought, and making many abortive attempts at literature,
she had finally taken up with painting. Painting is the only art that can be practised
without either talent or hard work. Mrs Lackersteen’s pose was that of an artist exiled
among ‘the Philistines’ — these, needless to say, included her husband — and it was a pose
that gave her almost unlimited scope for making a nuisance of herself.

In the last year of the War Mr Lackersteen, who had managed to avoid service, made a
great deal of money, and just after the Armistice they moved into a huge, new, rather
bleak house in Highgate, with quantities of greenhouses, shrubberies, stables and tennis



courts. Mr Lackersteen had engaged a horde of servants, even, so great was his optimism,
a butler. Elizabeth was sent for two terms to a very expensive boarding-school. Oh, the
joy, the joy, the unforgettable joy of those two terms! Four of the girls at the school were
‘the Honourable’; nearly all of them had ponies of their own, on which they were allowed
to go riding on Saturday afternoons. There is a short period in everyone’s life when his
character is fixed forever; with Elizabeth, it was those two terms during which she rubbed
shoulders with the rich. Thereafter her whole code of living was summed up in one
belief, and that a simple one. It was that the Good (‘lovely’ was her name for it) is
synonymous with the expensive, the elegant, the aristocratic; and the Bad (‘beastly’) is
the cheap, the low, the shabby, the laborious. Perhaps it is in order to teach this creed that
expensive girls’ schools exist. The feeling subtilized itself as Elizabeth grew older,
diffused itself through all her thoughts. Everything from a pair of stockings to a human
soul was classifiable as ‘lovely’ or ‘beastly’. And unfortunately — for Mr Lackersteen’s
prosperity did not last — it was the ‘beastly’ that had predominated in her life.

The inevitable crash came late in 1919. Elizabeth was taken away from school, to
continue her education at a succession of cheap, beastly schools, with gaps of a term or
two when her father could not pay the fees. He died when she was twenty, of influenza.
Mrs Lackersteen was left with an income of LI 50 a year, which was to die with her. The
two women could not, under Mrs Lackersteen’s management, live on three pounds a
week in England. They moved to Paris, where life was cheaper and where Mrs
Lackersteen intended to dedicate herself wholly to Art.

Paris! Living in Paris! Flory had been a little wide of the mark when he pictured those
intenninable conversations with bearded artists under the green plane trees. Elizabeth’s
life in Paris had not been quite like that.

Her mother had taken a studio in the Montparnasse quarter, and relapsed at once into a
state of squalid, muddling idleness. She was so foolish with money that her income
would not come near covering expenses, and for several months Elizabeth did not even
have enough to eat. Then she found a job as visiting teacher of English to the family of a
French bank manager. They called her ‘notre mees Anglaise’. The banker lived in the
twelfth arrondissement, a long way from Montparnasse, and Elizabeth had taken a room
in a pension near by. It was a narrow, yellow-faced house in a side street, looking out on



to a poulterer’s shop, generally decorated with reeking carcasses of wild boars, which old
gentlemen like decrepit satyrs would visit every morning and sniff long and lovingly.
Next door to the poulterer’s was a fly-blown cafe with the sign ‘Cafe de l’Amitie. Bock
Formidable’. How Elizabeth had loathed that pension! The patroness was an old black-
clad sneak who spent her life in tiptoeing up and down stairs in hopes of catching the
boarders washing stockings in their hand-basins. The boarders, sharp-tongued bilious
widows, pursued the only man in the establishment, a mild, bald creature who worked in
La Samaritaine, like sparrows worrying a bread-crust. At meals all of them watched each
others’ plates to see who was given the biggest helping. The bathroom was a dark den
with leprous walls and a rickety verdigrised geyser which would spit two inches of tepid
water into the bath and then mulishly stop working. The bank manager whose children
Elizabeth taught was a man of fifty, with a fat, worn face and a bald, dark yellow crown
resembling an ostrich’s egg. The second day after her arrival he came into the room
where the children were at their lessons, sat down beside Elizabeth and immediately
pinched her elbow. The third day he pinched her on the calf, the fourth day behind the
knee, the fifth day above the knee. Thereafter, every evening, it was a silent battle
between the two of them, her hand under the table, struggling and struggling to keep that
ferret-like hand away from her.

It was a mean, beastly existence. In fact, it reached levels of ‘beastliness’ which Elizabeth
had not previously known to exist. But the thing that most depressed her, most filled her
with the sense of sinking into some horrible lower world, was her mother’s studio. Mrs
Lackersteen was one of those people who go utterly to pieces when they are deprived of
servants. She lived in a restless nightmare between painting and housekeeping, and never
worked at either. At irregular intervals she went to a ‘school’ where she produced greyish
still-lifes under the guidance of a master whose technique was founded on dirty brushes;
for the rest, she messed about miserably at home with teapots and frying-pans. The state
of her studio was more than depressing to Elizabeth; it was evil, Satanic. It was a cold,
dusty pigsty, with piles of books and papers littered all over the floor, generations of
saucepans slumbering in their grease on the rusty gas-stove, the bed never made till
afternoon, and everywhere — in every possible place where they could be stepped on or
knocked over — tins of paint- fouled turpentine and pots half full of cold black tea. You
would lift a cushion from a chair and find a plate holding the remains of a poached egg
underneath it. As soon as Elizabeth entered the door she would burst out:



‘Oh, Mother, Mother dearest, how CAN you? Look at the state of this room! It is so
terrible to live like this! ’

‘The room, dearest? What’s the matter? Is it untidy? ’

‘Untidy! Mother, NEED you leave that plate of porridge in the middle of your bed? And
those saucepans! It does look so dreadful. Suppose anyone came in! ’

The rapt, other-wordly look which Mrs Lackersteen assumed when anything like work
presented itself, would come into her eyes.

‘None of MY friends would mind, dear. We are such Bohemians, we artists. You don’t
understand how utterly wrapped up we all are in our painting. You haven’t the artistic
temperament, you see, dear. ’

‘I must try and clean some of those saucepans. I just can’t bear to think of you living like
this. What have you done with the scrubbing-brush? ’

‘The scrubbing-brush? Now, let me think, I know I saw it somewhere. Ah yes! I used it
yesterday to clean my palette. But it’ll be all right if you give it a good wash in
turpentine. ’

Mrs Lackersteen would sit down and continue smudging a sheet of sketching paper with
a Conte crayon while Elizabeth worked.

‘How wonderful you are, dear. So practical! I can’t think whom you inherit it from. Now
with me, Art is simply EVERYTHING. I seem to feel it like a great sea surging up inside
me. It swamps everything mean and petty out of existence. Yesterday I ate my lunch off
Nash’s Magazine to save wasting time washing plates. Such a good idea! When you want
a clean plate you just tear off a sheet,’ etc. , etc. , etc.

Elizabeth had no friends in Paris. Her mother’s friends were women of the same stamp as
herself, or elderly ineffectual bachelors living on small incomes and practising
contemptible half-arts such as wood-engraving or painting on porcelain. For the rest,
Elizabeth saw only foreigners, and she disliked all foreigners en bloc; or at least all
foreign men, with their cheap-looking clothes and their revolting table manners. She had



one great solace at this time. It was to go to the American library in the rue de l’Elysee
and look at the illustrated papers. Sometimes on a Sunday or her free afternoon she would
sit there for hours at the big shiny table, dreaming, over the Sketch, the Tatter, the
Graphic, the Sporting and Dramatic.

Ah, what joys were pictured there! ‘Hounds meeting on the lawn of Charlton Hall, the
lovely Warwickshire seat of Lord Burrowdean. ’ ‘The Hon. Mrs Tyke-Bowlby in the Park
with her splendid Alsatian, Kublai Khan, which took second prize at Cruft’s this
summer. ’ ‘Sunbathing at Cannes. Left to right: Miss Barbara Pilbrick, Sir Edward Tuke,
Lady Pamela Westrope, Captain “Tuppy” Benacre. ’

Lovely, lovely, golden world! On two occasions the face of an old schoolfellow looked at
Elizabeth from the page. It hurt her in her breast to see it. There they all were, her old
schoolfellows, with their horses and their cars and their husbands in the cavalry; and here
she, tied to that dreadful job, that dreadful pension, her dreadful mother! Was it possible
that there was no escape? Could she be doomed forever to this sordid meanness, with no
hope of ever getting back to the decent world again?

It was not unnatural, with the example of her mother before her eyes, that Elizabeth
should have a healthy loathing of Art. In fact, any excess of intellect — ‘braininess’ was
her word for it — tended to belong, in her eyes, to the ‘beastly’. Real people, she felt,
decent people — people who shot grouse, went to Ascot, yachted at Cowes — were not
brainy. They didn’t go in for this nonsense of writing books and fooling with
paintbrushes; and all these Highbrow ideas — Socialism and all that. ‘Highbrow’ was a
bitter word in her vocabulary. And when it happened, as it did once or twice, that she met
a veritable artist who was willing to work penniless all his life, rather than sell himself to
a bank or an insurance company, she despised him far more than she despised the
dabblers of her mother’s circle. That a man should turn deliberately away from all that
was good and decent, sacrifice himself for a futility that led nowhere, was shameful,
degrading, evil. She dreaded spinsterhood, but she would have endured it a thousand
lifetimes through rather than marry such a man.

When Elizabeth had been nearly two years in Paris her mother died abruptly of ptomaine
poisoning. The wonder was that she had not died of it sooner. Elizabeth was left with



rather less than a hundred pounds in the world. Her uncle and aunt cabled at once from
Burma, asking her to come out and stay with them, and saying that a letter would follow.


Mrs Lackersteen had reflected for some time over the letter, her pen between her lips,
looking down at the page with her delicate triangular face like a meditative snake.

‘I suppose we must have her out here, at any rate for a year. WHAT a bore! However,
they generally marry within a year if they’ve any looks at all. What am I to say to the girl,
Tom? ’

‘Say? Oh, just say she’ll pick up a husband out here a damn sight easier than at home.
Something of that sort, y’know. ’

‘My DEAR Tom! What impossible things you say! ’

Mrs Lackersteen wrote:

Of course, this is a very small station and we are in the jungle a great deal of the time.