No More Learning

They were standing face to face, very close
together. On an impulse — and it was so swiftly done that afterwards he had difficulty in
believing that it had ever happened — he took her in his arms and drew her towards him.
For a moment she yielded and let him lift up her face and kiss her; then suddenly she
recoiled and shook her head. Perhaps she was frightened that someone would see them,
perhaps it was only because his moustache was so wet from the rain. Without saying



anything more she broke from him and hurried away into the Club. There was a look of
distress or compunction in her face; but she did not seem angry.

He followed her more slowly into the Club, and ran into Mr Macgregor, who was in a
very good humour. As soon as he saw Flory he boomed genially, ‘Aha! The conquering
hero comes! ’ and then, in a more serious vein, offered him fresh congratulations. Flory
improved the occasion by saying a few words on behalf of the doctor. He painted quite a
lively picture of the doctor’s heroism in the riot. ‘He was right in the middle of the
crowd, fighting like a tiger,’ etc. , etc. It was not too much exaggerated — for the doctor
had certainly risked his life. Mr Macgregor was impressed, and so were the others when
they heard of it. At all times the testimony of one European can do an Oriental more good
than that of a thousand of his fellow countrymen; and at this moment Flory’s opinion
carried weight. Practically, the doctor’s good name was restored. His election to the Club
could be taken as assured.

However, it was not finally agreed upon yet, because Flory was returning to camp. He set
out the same evening, marching by night, and he did not see Elizabeth again before
leaving. It was quite safe to travel in the jungle now, for the futile rebellion was
obviously finished. There is seldom any talk of rebellion after the rains have started — the
Burmans are too busy ploughing, and in any case the waterlogged fields are impassable
for large bodies of men. Flory was to return to Kyauktada in ten days, when the padre’s
six-weekly visit fell due. The truth was that he did not care to be in Kyauktada while both
Elizabeth and Verrall were there. And yet, it was strange, but all the bitterness — all the
obscene, crawling envy that had tonnented him before — was gone now that he knew she
had forgiven him. It was only Verrall who stood between them now. And even the
thought of her in Verrall ’s anns could hardly move him, because he knew that at the
worst the affair must have an end. Verrall, it was quite certain, would never marry
Elizabeth; young men of Verrall ’s stamp do not marry penniless girls met casually at
obscure Indian stations. He was only amusing himself with Elizabeth. Presently he would
desert her, and she would return to him — to Flory. It was enough — it was far better than
he had hoped. There is a humility about genuine love that is rather horrible in some ways.

U Po Kyin was furiously angry. The miserable riot had taken him unawares, so far as
anything ever took him unawares, and it was like a handful of grit thrown into the



machinery of his plans. The business of disgracing the doctor had got to be begun all over
again. Begun it was, sure enough, with such a spate of anonymous letters that Hla Pe had
to absent himself from office for two whole days — it was bronchitis this time — to get
them written. The doctor was accused of every crime from pederasty to stealing
Government postage stamps. The prison warder who had let Nga Shwe O escape had
now come up for trial. He was triumphantly acquitted, U Po Kyin having spent as much
as two hundred rupees in bribing the witnesses. More letters showered up on Mr
Macgregor, proving in detail that Dr Veraswami, the real author of the escape, had tried
to shift the blame on to a helpless subordinate. Nevertheless, the results were
disappointing. The confidential letter which Mr Macgregor wrote to the Commissioner,
reporting on the riot, was steamed open, and its tone was so alanning — Mr Macgregor
had spoken of the doctor as ‘behaving most creditably’ on the night of the riot — that U Po
Kyin called a council of war.

‘The time has come for a vigorous move,’ he said to the others — they were in conclave
on the front veranda, before breakfast. Ma Kin was there, and Ba Sein and Hla Pe — the
latter a bright-faced, promising boy of eighteen, with the manner of one who will
certainly succeed in life.

‘We are hammering against a brick wall,’ U Po Kyin continued; ‘and that wall is Flory.
Who could have foreseen that that miserable coward would stand by his friend?
However, there it is. So long as Veraswami has his backing, we are helpless. ’

‘I have been talking to the Club butler, sir,’ said Ba Sein. ‘He tells me that Mr Ellis and
Mr Westfield still do not want the doctor to be elected to the Club. Do you not think they
will quarrel with Flory again as soon as this business of the riot is forgotten? ’

‘Of course they will quarrel, they always quarrel. But in the meantime the harm is done.
Just suppose that man WERE elected! I believe I should die of rage if it happened. No,
there is only one move left. We must strike at Flory himself! ’


‘At Flory, sir! But he is a white man! ’



‘What do I care? I have ruined white men before now. Once let Flory be disgraced, and
there is an end of the doctor. And he shall be disgraced! I will shame him so that he will
never dare show his face in that Club again! ’

‘But, sir! A white man! What are we to accuse him of? Who would believe anything
against a white man? ’

‘You have no strategy, Ko Ba Sein. One does not ACCUSE a white man; one has got to
catch him in the act. Public disgrace, in flagrante delicto. I shall know how to set about it.
Now be silent while I think. ’

There was a pause. U Po Kyin stood gazing out into the rain with his small hands clasped
behind him and resting on the natural plateau of his posterior. The other three watched
him from the end of the veranda, almost frightened by this talk of attacking a white man,
and waiting for some masterstroke to cope with a situation that was beyond them. It was
a little like the familiar picture (is it Meissonier’s? ) of Napoleon at Moscow, poring over
his maps while his marshals wait in silence, with their cocked hats in their hands. But of
course U Po Kyin was more equal to the situation than Napoleon. His plan was ready
within two minutes. When he turned round his vast face was suffused with excessive joy.
The doctor had been mistaken when he described U Po Kyin as attempting to dance; U
Po Kyin’s figure was not designed for dancing; but, had it been so designed, he would
have danced at this moment. He beckoned to Ba Sein and whispered in his ear for a few
seconds.

‘That is the correct move, I think? ’ he concluded.

A broad, unwilling, incredulous grin stole slowly across Ba Sein’s face.

‘Fifty rupees ought to cover all the expenses,’ added U Po Kyin, beaming.

The plan was unfolded in detail. And when the others had taken it in, all of them, even Ba
Sein, who seldom laughed, even Ma Kin, who disapproved from the bottom of her soul,
burst into irrepressible peals of laughter. The plan was really too good to be resisted. It
was genius.



All the while it was raining, raining. The day after Flory went back to camp it rained for
thirty-eight hours at a stretch, sometimes slowing to the pace of English rain, sometimes
pouring down in such cataracts that one thought the whole ocean must by now have been
sucked up into the clouds. The rattling on the roof became maddening after a few hours.
In the intervals between the rain the sun glared as fiercely as ever, the mud began to crack
and steam, and patches of prickly heat sprang out all over one’s body. Hordes of flying
beetles had emerged from their cocoons as soon as the rain started; there was a plague of
loathly creatures known as stink-bugs, which invaded the houses in incredible numbers,
littered themselves over the dining-table and made one’s food uneatable. Verrall and
Elizabeth still went out riding in the evenings, when the rain was not too fierce. To
Verrall, all climates were alike, but he did not like to see his ponies plastered with mud.
Nearly a week went by. Nothing was changed between them — they were neither less nor
more intimate than they had been before. The proposal of marriage, still confidently
expected, was still unuttered. Then an alarming thing happened. The news filtered to the
Club, through Mr Macgregor, that Verrall was leaving Kyauktada; the Military Police
were to be kept at Kyauktada, but another officer was coming in Verrall’s place, no one
was certain when. Elizabeth was in horrible suspense. Surely, if he was going away, he
must say something definite soon? She could not question him — dared not even ask him
whether he was really going; she could only wait for him to speak. He said nothing. Then
one evening, without warning, he failed to turn up at the Club. And two whole days
passed during which Elizabeth did not see him at all.

It was dreadful, but there was nothing that could be done. Verrall and Elizabeth had been
inseparable for weeks, and yet in a way they were almost strangers. He had kept himself
so aloof from them all — had never even seen the inside of the Lackersteens’ house. They
did not know him well enough to seek him out at the dakbungalow, or write to him; nor
did he reappear at morning parade on the maidan. There was nothing to do except wait
until he chose to present himself again. And when he did, would he ask her to marry him?
Surely, surely he must! Both Elizabeth and her aunt (but neither of them had even spoken
of it openly) held it as an article of faith that he must ask her. Elizabeth looked forward to
their next meeting with a hope that was almost painful. Please God it would be a week at
least before he went! If she rode with him four times more, or three times — even if it
were only twice, all might yet be well. Please God he would come back to her soon! It
was unthinkable that when he came, it would only be to say good-bye! The two women



went down to the Club each evening and sat there until quite late, listening for Verrall’s
footsteps outside while seeming not to listen; but he never appeared. Ellis, who
understood the situation perfectly, watched Elizabeth with spiteful amusement. What
made it worst of all was that Mr Lackersteen was now pestering Elizabeth unceasingly.
He had become quite reckless. Almost under the eyes of the servants he would waylay
her, catch hold of her and begin pinching and fondling her in the most revolting way. Her
sole defence was to threaten that she would tell her aunt; happily he was too stupid to
realize that she would never dare do it.

On the third morning Elizabeth and her aunt arrived at the Club just in time to escape a
violent storm of rain. They had been sitting in the lounge for a few minutes when they
heard the sound of someone stamping the water off his shoes in the passage. Each
woman’s heart stirred, for this might be Verrall. Then a young man entered the lounge,
unbuttoning a long raincoat as he came. He was a stout, rollicking, chuckle-headed youth
of about twenty-five, with fat fresh cheeks, butter-coloured hair, no forehead, and, as it
turned out afterwards, a deafening laugh.

Mrs Lackersteen made some inarticulate sound — it was jerked out of her by her
disappointment. The youth, however, hailed them with immediate bonhomie, being one
of those who are on terms of slangy intimacy with everyone from the moment of meeting
them.

‘Hullo, hullo! ’ he said ‘Enter the fairy prince! Hope I don’t sort of intrude and all that?
Not shoving in on any family gatherings or anything? ’

‘Not at all! ’ said Mrs Lackersteen in surprise.

‘What I mean to say — thought I’d just pop in at the Club and have a glance round, don’t
you know. Just to get acclimatized to the local brand of whisky. I only got here last
night. ’

‘Are you STATIONED here? ’ said Mrs Lackersteen, mystified — for they had not been
expecting any newcomers.


‘Yes, rather. Pleasure’s mine, entirely. ’



‘But we hadn’t heard. . . . Oh, of course! I suppose you’re from the Forest Department?
In place of poor Mr Maxwell? ’


‘What? Forest Department? No fear! I’m the new Military Police bloke, you know. ’
‘The— what? ’

‘New Military Police bloke. Taking over from dear ole Verrall. The dear ole chap got
orders to go back to his regiment. Going off in a fearful hurry. And a nice mess he’s left
everything in for yours truly, too. ’

The Military Policeman was a crass youth, but even he noticed that Elizabeth’s face
turned suddenly sickly. She found herself quite unable to speak. It was several seconds
before Mrs Lackersteen managed to exclaim:

‘Mr Verrall — going? Surely he isn’t going away YET? ’

‘Going? He’s gone! ’

‘GONE? ’

‘Well, what I mean to say — train’s due to start in about half an hour. He’ll be along at the
station now. I sent a fatigue party to look after him. Got to get his ponies aboard and all
that. ’

There were probably further explanations, but neither Elizabeth nor her aunt heard a word
of them. In any case, without even a good-bye to the Military Policeman, they were out
on the front steps within fifteen seconds. Mrs Lackersteen called sharply for the butler.

‘Butler! Send my rickshaw round to the front at once! To the station, jaldi! ’ she added as
the rickshaw-man appeared, and, having settled herself in the rickshaw, poked him in the
back with the ferrule of her umbrella to start him.

Elizabeth had put on her raincoat and Mrs Lackersteen was cowering in the rickshaw
behind her umbrella, but neither was much use against the rain. It came driving towards
them in such sheets that Elizabeth’s frock was soaked before they had reached the gate,



and the rickshaw almost overturned in the wind. The rickshaw- wallah put his head down
and struggled into it, groaning. Elizabeth was in agony. It was a mistake, SURELY it was
a mistake. He had written to her and the letter had gone astray. That was it, that MUST be
it! It could not be that he had meant to leave her without even saying good-bye! And if it
were so — no, not even then would she give up hope! When he saw her on the platfonn,
for the last time, he could not be so brutal as to forsake her! As they neared the station
she fell behind the rickshaw and pinched her cheeks to bring the blood into them. A
squad of Military Police sepoys shuffled hurriedly by, their thin uniforms sodden into
rags, pushing a handcart among them. Those would be VerralTs fatigue party. Thank
God, there was a quarter of an hour yet. The train was not due to leave for another quarter
of an hour. Thank God, at least, for this last chance of seeing him!
They arrived on the platform just in time to see the train draw out of the station and
gather speed with a series of deafening snorts. The stationmaster, a little round, black
man, was standing on the line looking ruefully after the train, and holding his waterproof-
covered topi on to his head with one hand, while with the other he fended off two
clamorous Indians who were bobbing at him and trying to thrust something upon his
attention. Mrs Lackersteen leaned out of the rickshaw and called agitatedly through the
rain.

‘Stationmaster! ’

‘Madam! ’

‘What train is that? ’

‘That is the Mandalay train, madam. ’

‘The Mandalay train! It can’t be! ’

‘But I assure you, madam! It is precisely the Mandalay train. ’ He came towards them,
removing his topi.


‘But Mr Verrall — the Police officer? Surely he’s not on it? ’



‘Yes, madam, he have departed. ’ He waved his hand towards the train, now receding
rapidly in a cloud of rain and steam.


‘But the train wasn’t due to start yet! ’

‘No, madam. Not due to start for another ten minutes. ’

‘Then why has it gone? ’

The stationmaster waved his topi apologetically from side to side. His dark, squabby face
looked quite distressed.

‘I know, madam, I know! MOST unprecedented! But the young Military Police officer
have positively COMMANDED me to start the train! He declare that all is ready and he
do not wish to be kept waiting. I point out the irregularity. He say he do not care about
irregularity. I expostulate. He insist. And in short — ’

He made another gesture. It meant that Verrall was the kind of man who would have his
way, even when it came to starting a train ten minutes early. There was a pause. The two
Indians, imagining that they saw their chance, suddenly rushed forward, wailing, and
offered some grubby notebooks for Mrs Lackersteen’s inspection.

‘What DO these men want? ’ cried Mrs Lackersteen distractedly.

‘They are grass-wallahs, madam. They say that Lieutenant Verrall have departed owing
them large sums of money. One for hay, the other for corn. Of mine it is no affair. ’

There was a hoot from the distant train. It rolled round the bend, like a black-behinded
caterpillar that looks over its shoulder as it goes, and vanished. The stationmaster ’s wet
white trousers flapped forlornly about his legs. Whether Verrall had started the train early
to escape Elizabeth, or to escape the grass-wallahs, was an interesting question that was
never cleared up.

They made their way back along the road, and then struggled up the hill in such a wind
that sometimes they were driven several paces backwards. When they gained the veranda
they were quite out of breath. The servants took their streaming raincoats, and Elizabeth



shook some of the water from her hair. Mrs Lackersteen broke her silence for the first
time since they had left the station:

‘WELL! Of all the unmannerly — of the simply ABOMINABLE. . . ! ’

Elizabeth looked pale and sickly, in spite of the rain and wind that had beaten into her
face. But she would betray nothing.

‘I think he might have waited to say good-bye to us,’ she said coldly.

‘Take my word for it, dear, you are thoroughly well rid of him! . . . As I said from the
start, a most ODIOUS young man! ’

Some time later, when they were sitting down to breakfast, having bathed and got into
dry clothes, and feeling better, she remarked:

‘Let me see, what day is this? ’

‘Saturday, Aunt. ’

‘Ah, Saturday. Then the dear padre will be arriving this evening. How many shall we be
for the service tomorrow? Why, I think we shall ALL be here! How very nice! Mr Flory
will be here too. I think he said he was coming back from the jungle tomorrow. ’ She
added almost lovingly, ‘DEAR Mr Flory! ’


CHAPTER 24

It was nearly six o’clock in the evening, and the absurd bell in the six-foot tin steeple of
the church went clank-clank, clank-clank! as old Mattu pulled the rope within. The rays
of the setting sun, refracted by distant rainstonns, flooded the maidan with a beautiful,
lurid light. It had been raining earlier in the day, and would rain again. The Christian



community of Kyauktada, fifteen in number, were gathering at the church door for the
evening service.

Flory was already there, and Mr Macgregor, grey topi and all, and Mr Francis and Mr
Samuel, frisking about in freshly laundered drill suits — for the six-weekly church service
was the great social event of their lives. The padre, a tall man with grey hair and a
refined, discoloured face, wearing pince-nez, was standing on the church steps in his
cassock and surplice, which he had put on in Mr Macgregor’s house. He was smiling in
an amiable but rather helpless way at four pink-cheeked Karen Christians who had come
to make their bows to him; for he did not speak a word of their language nor they of his.
There was one other Oriental Christian, a mournful, dark Indian of uncertain race, who
stood humbly in the background. He was always present at the church services, but no
one knew who he was or why he was a Christian. Doubtless he had been captured and
baptized in infancy by the missionaries, for Indians who are converted when adults
almost invariably lapse.

Flory could see Elizabeth coming down the hill, dressed in lilac-colour, with her aunt and
uncle. He had seen her that morning at the Club — they had had just a minute alone
together before the others came in. He had only asked her one question.

‘Has Verrall gone — for good? ’

‘Yes. ’

There had been no need to say any more. He had simply taken her by the arms and drawn
her towards him. She came willingly, even gladly — there in the clear daylight, merciless
to his disfigured face. For a moment she had clung to him almost like a child. It was a
though he had saved her or protected her from something. He raised her face to kiss her,
and found with surprise that she was crying. There had been no time to talk then, not
even to say, ‘Will you marry me? ’ No matter, after the service there would be time
enough. Perhaps at his next visit, only six weeks hence, the padre would marry them.

Ellis and Westfield and the new Military Policeman were approaching from the Club,
where they had been having a couple of quick ones to last them through the service. The
Forest Officer who had been sent to take Maxwell’s place, a sallow, tall man, completely



bald except for two whisker-like tufts in front of his ears, was following them. Flory had
not time to say more than ‘Good evening’ to Elizabeth when she arrived. Mattu, seeing
that everyone was present, stopped ringing the bell, and the clergyman led the way inside,
followed by Mr Macgregor, with his topi against his stomach, and the Lackersteens and
the native Christians. Ellis pinched Flory’ s elbow and whispered boozily in his ear:

‘Come on, line up. Time for the snivel-parade. Quick march! ’

He and the Military Policeman went in behind the others, ann-in-arm, with a dancing
step — the policeman, till they got inside, wagging his fat behind in imitation of a pwe-
dancer. Flory sat down in the same pew as these two, opposite Elizabeth, on her right. It
was the first time that he had ever risked sitting with his birthmark towards her. ‘Shut
your eyes and count twenty-five’, whispered Ellis as they sat down, drawing a snigger
from the policeman. Mrs Lackersteen had already taken her place at the hannonium,
which was no bigger than a writing-desk. Mattu stationed himself by the door and began
to pull the punkah — it was so arranged that it only flapped over the front pews, where the
Europeans sat. Flo came nosing up the aisle, found Flory’s pew and settled down
underneath it. The service began.

Flory was only attending intermittently. He was dimly aware of standing and kneeling
and muttering ‘Amen’ to interminable prayers, and of Ellis nudging him and whispering
blasphemies behind his hymn book. But he was too happy to collect his thoughts. Hell
was yielding up Eurydice. The yellow light flooded in through the open door, gilding the
broad back of Mr Macgregor’s silk coat like cloth-of-gold. Elizabeth, across the narrow
aisle, was so close to Flory that he could hear every rustle of her dress and feel, as it
seemed to him, the warmth of her body; yet he would not look at her even once, lest the
others should notice it. The hannonium quavered bronchitically as Mrs Lackersteen
struggled to pump sufficient air into it with the sole pedal that worked. The singing was a
queer, ragged noise — an earnest booming from Mr Macgregor, a kind of shamefaced
muttering from the other Europeans, and from the back a loud, wordless lowing, for the
Karen Christians knew the tunes of the hymns but not the words.

They were kneeling down again. ‘More bloody knee-drill,’ Ellis whispered. The air
darkened, and there was a light patter of rain on the roof; the trees outside rustled, and a



cloud of yellow leaves whirled past the window. Flory watched them through the chinks
of his lingers. Twenty years ago, on winter Sundays in his pew in the parish church at
home, he used to watch the yellow leaves, as at this moment, drifting and fluttering
against leaden skies. Was it not possible, now, to begin over again as though those grimy
years had never touched him? Through his fingers he glanced sidelong at Elizabeth,
kneeling with her head bent and her face hidden in her youthful, mottled hands. When
they were married, when they were married! What fun they would have together in this
alien yet kindly land! He saw Elizabeth in his camp, greeting him as he came home tired
from work and Ko STa hurried from the tent with a bottle of beer; he saw her walking in
the forest with him, watching the hornbills in the peepul trees and picking nameless
flowers, and in the marshy grazing-grounds, tramping through the cold-weather mist after
snipe and teal. He saw his home as she would remake it. He saw his drawing-room,
sluttish and bachelor-like no longer, with new furniture from Rangoon, and a bowl of
pink balsams like rosebuds on the table, and books and water-colours and a black piano.
Above all the piano! His mind lingered upon the piano — symbol, perhaps because he was
unmusical, of civilized and settled life. He was delivered for ever from the sub-life of the
past decade — the debaucheries, the lies, the pain of exile and solitude, the dealings with
whores and moneylenders and pukka sahibs.

The clergyman stepped to the small wooden lectern that also served as a pulpit, slipped
the band from a roll of sermon paper, coughed, and announced a text. ‘In the name of the
Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen. ’

‘Cut it short, for Christ’s sake,’ murmured Ellis.

Flory did not notice how many minutes passed. The words of the sermon flowed
peacefully through his head, an indistinct burbling sound, almost unheard. When they
were married, he was still thinking, when they were married —

Hullo! What was happening?

The clergyman had stopped short in the middle of a word. He had taken off his pince-nez
and was shaking them with a distressed air at someone in the doorway. There was a
fearful, raucous scream.



‘Pike-san pay-like! Pike-san pay-like! ’


Everyone jumped in their seats and turned round. It was Ma Hla May. As they turned she
stepped inside the church and shoved old Mattu violently aside. She shook her fist at
Flory.

‘Pike-san pay-like! Pike-san pay-like! Yes, THAT’S the one I mean — Flory, Flory! (She
pronounced it Porley. ) That one sitting in front there, with the black hair! Turn round and
face me, you coward! Where is the money you promised me? ’

She was shrieking like a maniac. The people gaped at her, too astounded to move or
speak. Her face was grey with powder, her greasy hair was tumbling down, her longyi
was ragged at the bottom. She looked like a screaming hag of the bazaar. Flory’ s bowels
seemed to have turned to ice. Oh God, God! Must they know — must Elizabeth know —
that THAT was the woman who had been his mistress? But there was not a hope, not the
vestige of a hope, of any mistake. She had screamed his name over and over again. Flo,
hearing the familiar voice, wriggled from under the pew, walked down the aisle and
wagged her tail at Ma Hla May. The wretched woman was yelling out a detailed account
of what Flory had done to her.

‘Fook at me, you white men, and you women, too, look at me! Fook how he has ruined
me! Fook at these rags I am wearing! And he is sitting there, the liar, the coward,
pretending not to see me! He would let me starve at his gate like a pariah dog. Ah, but I
will shame you! Turn round and look at me! Fook at this body that you have kissed a
thousand times — look — look — ’

She began actually to tear her clothes open — the last insult of a base-born Burmese
woman. The harmonium squeaked as Mrs Fackersteen made a convulsive movement.
People had at last found their wits and began to stir. The clergyman, who had been
bleating ineffectually, recovered his voice, ‘Take that woman outside! ’ he said sharply.

Flory’s face was ghastly. After the first moment he had turned his head away from the
door and set his teeth in a desperate effort to look unconcerned. But it was useless, quite
useless. His face was as yellow as bone, and the sweat glistened on his forehead. Francis



and Samuel, doing perhaps the first useful deed of their lives, suddenly sprang from their
pew, grabbed Ma Hla May by the arms and hauled her outside, still screaming.

It seemed very silent in the church when they had finally dragged her out of hearing. The
scene had been so violent, so squalid, that everyone was upset by it. Even Ellis looked
disgusted. Flory could neither speak nor stir. He sat staring fixedly at the altar, his face
rigid and so bloodless that the birth-mark seemed to glow upon it like a streak of blue
paint. Elizabeth glanced across the aisle at him, and her revulsion made her almost
physically sick. She had not understood a word of what Ma Hla May was saying, but the
meaning of the scene was perfectly clear. The thought that he had been the lover of that
grey-faced, maniacal creature made her shudder in her bones. But worse than that, worse
than anything, was his ugliness at this moment. His face appalled her, it was so ghastly,
rigid and old. It was like a skull. Only the birthmark seemed alive in it. She hated him
now for his birthmark. She had never known till this moment how dishonouring, how
unforgivable a thing it was.

Like the crocodile, U Po Kyin had struck at the weakest spot. For, needless to say, this
scene was U Po Kyin’s doing.