Up the valley, beyond the well-established mines, where Burmese,
European and International pariah digs the disguised jewels from
Earth's mountainous breasts, Cyprian sat limply in an office with red
wooden walls, smiling to himself at the remembrance of the
untravelled folk who might picture ruby-mining as a series of endless
descents into Aladdin's cave.
The washing of the ruby dust was about the most interesting part.
The routine work and the daily examination of the naked coolies, who
had even been known to swallow promising earth-stained lumps of
treasure, in the hope of secreting them later for private
exploitation, very soon lost its excitement. The rough surroundings
and dusty atmosphere were, in themselves, the ordinary lot of
colonists and pioneers, but the average man had some purpose for
their endurance.
Cyprian was conscious of none. He sometimes asked himself,
seriously, what he had done in binding himself to drive,
interminably, another man's plough. There appeared to be no reason
why he should remain, save the natural reluctance of his type to look
back before the furrow was run. And that might not be for some while
yet.
His Company's mine, a small one, had been a secret discovery above
the area in those wilds where the mines were supposed to reach. He
contrasted the life he had chosen with that of the average business
man. The roads he travelled from the green banks of the Irrawadi,
more than fifty miles into the interior, lay through a bewildering
loveliness of mountain pass and rocky defile.
The country on either side of the river, steaming down which one
encountered the unique floating villages of the log-raftsmen,
remained primitively Eastern the whole way to Bhamo, where Burma
joins hands with China.
The philosophy of Gautama's fatalistic children was beginning to soak
into Cyprian's ego. From this point of the valley, breathing
incessantly an atmosphere of absorbing toil connected with those open
workings from which the Byon, or ruby-earth, was hauled up by washers
of half a dozen different nationalities, he grew almost able to
persuade himself that Ferlie's England of tall houses and dignified
streets humming with modern traffic, belonged to a lost pre-existence.
Nevertheless, after three more years of monotony endured on lethargic
river-boat, irresponsive mule-back, or at the inexorable office-desk,
always, more or less, drawn apart from his fellow-men, he suspected
that it was nearing the time when he should be born again. It was so
long since he had slept well at night. Sometimes he imagined the
pain in his heart had lulled, but each mail-day, blank of news he did
not expect, roused it again.
He could have remained longer at head-quarters now, had he so chosen,
but Cyprian never really fitted in with his pioneering countrymen of
the East, and round about his part of the world there were few women.
Burma had solved the problem of loneliness for the forest officers
and others in her own particular way. And Cyprian, in the noonday of
his life, tormented by insomnia, had begun to look upon it as an
inevitable way.
A dull throbbing ache in his temples made him lay down his pen. He
could take Leave, of course. The idea nauseated him. For what
reason should he wish to take Leave now? Even if Ferlie were unhappy
with the tall futile individual he had seen her marry, what could
Cyprian do? For him the road stretched thus solitary to the end of
the horizon, lengthened by the fruitless wooing of the sleep that had
deserted his tired plodding brain. If he stopped working, inaction
would only increase the pressure of thoughts which work held at bay.
* * * * * *
And then ... the thing happened so quickly. There was no battling
with decisions; no weighing pros and cons, and the Daimon had simply
held its peace.
One day as he walked up the hill to his inelaborate bungalow he began
to nurse a delirious fancy that the Country, herself, was holding his
head in an iron grip, and only the Country herself could draw out
those claws pressing into his temples on either side.
And, when he reached the four-roomed residence, the Country Herself
was awaiting him, as it had awaited, to some purpose, many another
transplanted Briton whose national sense of proportion had become
blunted after long rooting in alien soil.
She sat there, patiently, outside the dyed bamboo chick, a
lemon-coloured _lungi_ swathed about her hips, a white muslin jacket
concealing her contours, and frangipani blossoms nestling like stars
in the midnight of her hair. Her age, was, perhaps, sixteen, but her
smile revealed that placidity of soul suggesting many adventurous
incarnations. They called her Hla Byu, or Beauty Fair.
Her father was with her: a practical, soft-spoken, obliging old
gentleman, who had heard the Thakin was a lonely Thakin, and
unmarried, and thought that, for the exceptionally reasonable sum of
Rs.200 something might be arranged to the mutual advantage of all
parties.
Some atrophied instinct tried to whisper dead words to Cyprian's
wearied spirit as he paused in the doorway, one hand separating the
rattling strands of bead and bamboo, to gaze at Hla Byu with bodily,
but not mental, concentration. In response to that fixed regard her
smile intensified, becoming a happy thing reflected again in her eyes.
"Ohe, Thakin "--and her voice was honey-soft--"It may be in my hands
to heal the river-fever."
Thus he construed the quick-spoken sentence. His smarting lids were
lowered in token that he did not wish to argue the matter to its
close. But he held aside the pattering curtains for her to enter and
let them fall again behind him with the noise of dried leaves
laughing in a hot breeze.
* * * * * *
From the first the experiment acted as a narcotic. He had never
discussed with other men of his acquaintance the modes and methods
employed by all who adopt what is generally known as the Burma Habit.
During the War, just after his own swift flight from the mines to the
trenches, and his almost immediate rejection after that early
knock-out, an opportunity had been afforded him, by chance, of
observing the question from the viewpoint of the British soldier.
It clothed in an unearthly beauty what had, till then, struck Cyprian
as wholly sordid and unclean. But that soldier had certainly taken
part in an exceptionally pathetic human drama, which he proceeded to
relate with the utmost _naiveté_, flavoured by almost untranslatable
epithets of Tommyese.
One travelled third in trains those days unless one was the
engine-driver or had made a corner in lead before it became the staff
of life.
There was a lot of khaki coming up from Southampton; tired,
wet-looking khaki which had seen better days but none so worthy of
its cloth. It steamed with damp because the Mother Country had
greeted the shipload of travellers from across the Channel with her
customary flood of hopeless tears. The slippery platforms were
picturesque, after a fashion, from behind a window-pane of the
lingering train. It was waiting for the hospital train to leave
first.
Then three soldiers had stopped outside Cyprian's carriage window.
"'Old 'ard, mates," said a voice, checking his companions from
further exploration, "this 'ere is practically hempty."
Cyprian retired behind his paper as, with squelching boots and
reeking bundles, they proceeded to instal themselves.
"Bit of orl right, eh?" sighed the first with a creek of content as
he settled down to scrutinize the grey streaming pane. "The very
rain smells different."
Cyprian had scented an Optimist.
"Hell!" was the reply in startlingly convincing tones, "I'll be
floated out o' me blasted boots if I tries to stand up again."
This was obviously the Pessimist.
"All the same, them boots could take the prize at the beauty show if
Hathi's 'ere was put alongside 'em for comparison," declared the
Optimist, giving a poke at the footgear of Number Three.
His were certainly gaping in all likely and unlikely places, while
with the size of them one rightly connected the mode of address. The
Hathi smiled absent-mindedly as a man used to exciting comment upon
extremities, in more senses than one.
"'E keeps 'is like that a-purpose to show 'is Archiebald socks,"
commented the Pessimist, disgustedly. "I ain't 'ad so much sock on
me nine toes for six months as the Hathi 'as kep' on 'is corns for
the 'ole of the last push."
"You ought ter 'a kep' that missin' toe to sell, you ought," chaffed
the Optimist. "We could 'ave 'ad a auction in barricks after the
last big Bosch fungeral, always supposing we git barricks over our
'eads once more in the sweet By 'n By."
The Pessimist snorted.
"I wouldn't miss 'em none if we didn't," he stated flatly. "It's my
belief they'll be so sick of the sight and stink of soldiers that
they'll disband the bloomin' army."
"Always s'posin' there's any army left to disband," volunteered Hathi
in the soft even tones of the philosopher.
"One can't but 'ope," said the Optimist, producing a square packet
from an inner pocket and proceeding to unwrap it. "'Ope and smoke is
all the army 'as to feed on these days."
"'Ullo!" broke from the Pessimist, as the packet revealed cigarettes;
"where d'ye raise that, Rooseveldt?"
"These 'ere," returned the fortunate possessor, "was give to me by
'oo might be called a member of the yaller Fair Sex and I've 'ad 'em
treasured in oilskin the best part of a year waiting for this moment."
"An' we'll 'ope for 'ooever was with you at the moment," suggested
the Pessimist.
His companion shook his head sadly.
"I ain't allowed the privilege of sharin' wi' you, matey," he said,
"though with a generous nature like mine the situation goes crool
'ard. Fact is, I took a oath to smoke these with me solitary self on
the first day I set foot on the 'ome shores--always s'posin' I 'ad a
foot left to set on 'em."
"That sort of oath is 'ated in 'eaven," said the Pessimist,
incredulous.
"It's 'ated worse on earth," replied the Optimist, eyeing him
speculatively.
The Philosopher spoke. "Why don't you buy a penny packet of fags if
you want 'em? I see a Mother's Darling runnin' round jes' now wiv a
right pritty lil tray. I wouldn't want anyone's fags 'oo didn't want
me to 'ave 'em."
"You correck that," commanded the Optimist threateningly. "I tell
you it's a slap-up genuine affydavid that stands in my way. 'Ave you
ever known me refuse a pal me own wipe--alway' s'posin' 'e was in the
kind o' trouble wot needed a wipe?"
Apparently they hadn't, for the Philosopher prodded him gently in the
belt with the toe of his boot by way of stemming his rising
indignation, and the Pessimist hung unresentfully out of the window.
"This way, sonny," he yelled, on sighting the said Mother's Darling.
"'Urry your twinklin' tootsies!"
But the cigarette boy did not hear.
"Try 'im with 'Cuthbert'," advised the Optimist sympathetically, "or
Rodney. Rodney is a nice name," he mused. "I once 'ad a gawd-child
named Rodney. It died o' croup."
"O blast the bloomin' train!" (in effect) exclaimed the Pessimist
impatiently as the engine showed signs of restlessness. "'Ere, you!"
But the boy sighted him too late as, with a shrill warning, the
engine lurched forward and the long line of carriages rattled after
it, protesting, out of the station.
The Pessimist flung himself backwards with an unprintable expression.
His nerves were obviously needing a Woodbine.
"I'll have to commit perjury, I suppose," said the Optimist sadly,
handing him the oilskin-guarded case. "It's punishable by law but
I'll look to you and Hathi to bail me out."
"Quit foolin'," commanded the Philosopher, "and tell us, afore we
help ourselves, wot's makin' you so greedy-like the very day you
ought to be bustin' to share your soul with your pals?"
"Always s'posin' they ain't got none of their own," murmured the
Optimist, throwing him a box of matches.
"I ain't foolin'. There's a regular romance about them cigarettes
you indelicate spirits is about to enjoy without appreciatin' of."
"Regular your Granny!" growled the Pessimist. "Which of your beauty
gals robbed Dadda's case for this little lot? Why, they're Burmese!"
he finished in astonishment.
For answer the Optimist nodded to Hathi.
"You was up at the Daggone a fair piece?" he inquired.
Hathi reflected.
"When we was quartered at Rangoon? You bet!"
"You'll mind them festival nights afore the battalion was ordered for
Bosch fightin'?"
"I mind all them festivals," broke in the Pessimist.
"You minded too many festivals if I don't mis-remember," retorted the
Optimist. "I 'eard wot the sergeant said afterwards about you, my
man."
"It's a temple wot makes your mouth water, that," ruminated the
Philosopher, turning the discussion.
"It ain't the temple wot affects me that way," said the Optimist
decisively, "it's wot sits on the steps."
"I ain't seen none to equal the Daggone lot," agreed the Pessimist.
And, in a flash, behind Cyprian's paper, light broke upon a vision of
the Shwe Dagon Pagoda at festival time with its flight of steps
bright with humanity in coats of many colours. Yellow-robed, shaven
priests, gay-turbaned sweet-sellers, picturesque beggars and always
girls, girls. Girls in soft lungis of peach-coloured silk,
heliotrope, dull-rose and lemon; for unlike the Hindu woman the
Burmese has an artistic sense of colour highly developed.
Cyprian had never seen a native of Burma crudely clad. His thoughts
wandered.
"She 'adn't got the sort of name a parson could 'a got round his
tongue at the font," the Optimist was saying when he again turned his
attention to him, "Always supposin' she'd want 'im in that capacity.
She wore them frangipani flowers be'ind 'er ears. Woof! Whot a
jolly stink they 'ad."
The other two puffed acquiescence.
"Used ter remind me of a Putney bus on a 'ot day," soliloquized the
Pessimist, "I once picked up a lady's 'andkerchief in a Putney bus.
But no matter...."
"That's a tale of 'is gloomy past, that is," said the Optimist to the
Philosopher with a wink. "It'll be better kep' in its cawfin."
"So'll that yarn of lil Frangipani, if I ain't much mistook," snapped
the Pessimist.
A slow grin stole over the imperturbable countenance of the
Philosopher, but he did not speak.
"Funny goods, wimmin!" mused the story-teller, letting the remark
pass. "There's two sorts, when all's said and done--the sort a man
keeps in 'is 'ome, and the sort a man keeps in 'is 'eart."
"Lil Frangipani being the 'earty kind," suggested the Philosopher.
The Optimist searched his inner garments again.
"I got 'er 'ere," he said, and half-shamefacedly produced an envelope
containing a few crumpled snapshots taken with a large-sized Kodak.
He handed it to the Philosopher in silence and the Pessimist peered
over his shoulder.
"Why, I know 'er!" he exclaimed in triumph.
The Optimist greeted the information with scorn.
"You!" he said. "Why, she never ain't 'ad nothin' to do with a
gentleman wot Gawd 'adn't blessed with blue eyes and a pleasant
countenance."
"Wot's wrong with my countenance?" demanded the incensed Pessimist.
"There ain't nothin' right that I kin see," insisted the Optimist.
"'E got it at the same shop as yours came from," the Philosopher
gently reminded him.
"Wherever 'e got it from 'e was 'ad," insisted the Optimist.
"Well, if you call your eyes blue--" began the Pessimist.
"I don't," interrupted the other. "But she did, and that was good
enough."
"They say them extry small ones is colour-blind and stone deaf,"
stated the Pessimist. "It's along o' the life they lead."
"I've 'eard tell the same o' you," returned the Optimist, "but I
never pays no 'eed to gossip."
Again the Philosopher interposed.
"We'll take it she wasn't neither," he said soothingly. "And anyway
you 'appened to be to 'er taste and she 'appened to be to yours."
"We kep' company, as you might say," continued the Optimist,
"for--'ow long was we stationed there, Hathi?"
"Best part of a year," replied the Philosopher.
"So! Gawd, 'ow time moves along. I wouldn't 'a bin on-reasonable if
the lil gal 'ad kep' 'er 'and in wi' one or two of the next smartest
privates in the regiment...."
"Wot's that?" ejaculated the Pessimist, but the speaker took no
notice.
"But s'welp me if she looked at another blighter the 'ole time."
"S'welp me if she didn't!" came from the Pessimist. "I tells yer I
knows 'er."
"And I tells yer, yer never was able to tell one gal from another,
out there," contradicted the Optimist.
"I'd know that one in my sleep, anyway," went on the Pessimist.
"That's how you probably know her best," put in the Philosopher,
"it's a touchin' tale of a too-trustin' little 'eart, I don't think."
"Seein' as 'ow you're smokin' her fags..." began the Optimist.
"Let 'im git on with the yarn," remonstrated the Philosopher.
"Garn!" said the Pessimist, "I was only pullin' of 'is leg. Wot
'appened to the little picture?"
"You've said it," declared the Optimist, mollified. "She were a
picture; in 'er pale yellow lungi, wiv a blue scarf and the flowers
all over 'er on a festival day, she could 'a walked out wiv the
Prince of Wales and 'ad the folk all lookin' at 'er instead of 'im."
He sighed dreamy-eyed at the view of Eastbourne Pier over the
Philosopher's head. "As I say, she was mighty fond of me," he
continued simply. "And I thought a 'eap too much of 'er even to 'ave
a dekko at any of 'er little friends in pink and blue. There was one
Chinese woman, 'oo 'ad green dragons on 'er silk coat, and she gave
me the R.S.V.P. eye more'n once, but I was always goin' shoppin' wiv
Mother."
"I know that Chinese woman," said the Pessimist again.
"Then don't tell Mother about it," advised the Optimist. "The Hathi
'ere, 'e knows too little about trouble, and you, you knows too much
for your 'ealth. Well, my gal she 'ad been popular all 'er life and
'ad saved a tidy pile of rupees which she was for puttin' down my
socks, willin'. 'See 'ere,' I told 'er, 'I can't no-'ow treat you
different from as if you was a lady-maid airin' the pram in 'Yde
Park,' I says. 'You keeps your chinkers, my dear'!"
"'Old 'ard," interrupted the Pessimist, "'owd you talk to 'er in that
bat?"
"She knew three words of English to six words o' Urdu," explained the
Optimist, "and I knowed two o' Urdu to one of Burmese. And our kind
o' friendship did not need talkin' much at that o'clock."
"A he-male and a she-female under ninety niver need none at no
o'clock," said the Philosopher decidedly.
"Then came the rumour that we was to shift," went on the Optimist.
"I telled 'er, and she sung out somethink upsettin'. She wanted me
to chuck the army and join 'er in keepin' 'ouse out Signal Pagoda way
and be as 'appy as two little birds in a chimbly. She didn't see as
'ow my missus at 'ome could be reckoned a just cause or impediment
neither. She'd got 'er divorce from two 'usbands easy enough in the
past. Divorce is easy come by, accordin' to their rules, it seems."
"Which, takin' it all round, ain't surprisin'," said the Pessimist.
"I put it to her this way at last. 'See 'ere, Ladybird,' I sez, ''is
Majesty, the Bara Raj, 'e finds 'e can't do without me sword-arm in a
tamasha agoin' on agin a low-down lot o' soowar ke bachars called
Bosches,' I says. 'The British Raj 'e sends a chit for Private Cobb
to come along and give 'im a 'and, so naturally I replies, "Anything
to oblige." Now, 'ow could you expect me to do 'im down after that?'
I sez. 'Them Bosches, they've been eatin' babies and boilin' the
Raj's own Aunties in oil," I sez. That kind o' soothed 'er and she
begins to see I'd 'ave to go. 'You not come back,' she says.
''Course I come back,' I sez (for you know 'ow one 'as to work wiv
wimmin) 'I come back with a necklace o' Boschy teeth,' I sez, 'and
you can wear it on the next bara din to the Daggone. That took 'er
fancy some but, would you believe it, she didn't swaller me all at
once. 'You not remember me, 'ome," says she, 'you buljao.' 'Never,
on your life!' I tells 'er, 'you ain't the sort a man forgits easy.'
"The next time I sees 'er she brings me the fags, all wrapped up in
oilskin and air-tight in a little tin. She got me to promise I'd
smoke 'em when I were 'ome to keep me from forgittin' 'ow I was to
come back. They ain't the three-rupee a 'undred kind as you can
smell a mile neither."
"The day the orders was 'eard definite I was a-wanderin' round the
wharf takin' a look at the ship wot was to land the troops Gawd
knowed where, when I seed someone a-hailin' me from a sampan on the
river. It was jes' after them sampans 'ad been put out o' bounds
because of them two blasted Crusoes in B. Company wot 'ad drowned
themselves axidentally foolin' round in one. And they bein' a
disgrace to the regiment in not knowin' ow to swim, to my thinkin'."
"S wimmin' don't 'elp none in that river, bless you!" said the
Philosopher. "No man ain't never saved 'oo tries divin' stunts in
that current."
"Well, you listen," said the Optimist. "I looked 'ard and I seed
that the sampan was full o' fruit, and on top o' the fruit, perky as
Charley's Aunt, was that little yeller lungi seated. 'Course I
answered the wave o' 'er 'and, when the sampan gits near the wharf
she pointed at the fruit and then to me. She'd collected it from all
over the shop for me to 'ave on my journey."
"You never giv us none," said the Pessimist.
"You'll hear why," replied the speaker. "No one could 'a exactly
told wot 'appened after that, but there was a barge comin' down
stream, between the jetty and the sampan, and a steam-launch comin'
up opposite. The barge got in the way of me view fust and then
everyone 'eard a shout and the barge let out over its far end with
ropes, and then the sampan swept past 'er with a chunk missin' and a
speck of yeller 'angin' on, while the fruit was floatin' about on top
of the water."
"Gawd!" remarked the Pessimist. "Did they git 'er?"
The narrator paused. "Some men in a boat comin' up-stream lugged 'er
in," he said. "The man wot was rowin' the sampan 'ad gone down, and
so, o' course, they knew they needn't expect 'im up again inside a
week, and then it would be some miles along the river. But they got
the little gal ashore and took 'er to the 'ospital. 'Er 'air was
'angin' down and 'er little face was the colour of the inside of a
banana, and 'er silk lungi all tore and stained green."
"What did you do?" asked the Philosopher.
"What a man could. I went round to the 'ospital and they wouldn't
let me up, but I 'eard as 'ow 'er ribs was stove in. Through 'er
lung they stuck and that was 'ow they couldn't save 'er."
"Didn't you see 'er again at all?"
"Next afternoon I turned up to inquire, and a Burmese nurse said the
gal 'ad been askin' to see me as she knowed she was dying. They took
me up. There was screens all round the bed because she couldn't get
better, jes' like an English 'ospital. And O Gawd, some 'o them
wimmin in the ward as I passed, didn't they look 'arf ill! 'Wot's
this ward?' I asked the nurse, and an English matron wot 'ad come to
take my name and address said they were mostly police cases. She
didn't seem to like my face none, but she showed me to me little
friend. I Gawd-damned the 'ole blasted lot o' them when I see 'er,
an' jes' knelt down and put me 'ands on 'er little 'ands and sez:
'See 'ere Ladybird, 'ow you goin' to wear that Boschy tooth necklace
if you don't get well?' She opened 'er eyes wide as saucers for a
minute, and then she sees me and smiles a baby twisted smile. She
gasps a bit and I put me ear down close so's she wouldn't feel it any
effort to speak a piece. 'No buljao,' she whispers, so faint I
couldn't 'ardly 'ear. 'Never on your life!' sez I, and I meant it.
Then I brings out the fags to show 'er where I keeps 'em in an inner
pocket. She looks at 'em and, 'Soomoke,' she sez. I thought at fust
she wanted me to smoke one then and there, and I'd 'ave done it if
Gawd Almighty 'ad pointed out as it was against the rules. But then
'er tiny fingers nipped mine an' I kep' still. 'Don't you be
afeared,' I said, 'I ain't goin' to leave you yet,' thinkin' I'd put
my tongue out at the matron if she tried to shift me. With that she
kinds of seems to settle. 'Soomoke 'ome,' she gasps; and I answers,
'I'll smoke the bleedin' caseful, beginning the fust day I sets foot
in Blighty, and I'll blow back the smoke to the East so's all smoke
you see think it's my lot comin' to tell you as I ain't nearly
bulgaoed, nor goin' to'."
The Optimist stopped and coughed violently. Then he got up and
fussing with the window-strap let the pane down with a bang. The
rain had ceased, and breaths of English Spring blew in across the wet
fields.
"These 'ere do irritate the throat after a while," said the
Philosopher sympathetically.
"And wot happened next?" asked the Pessimist, who had no fine
perceptions.
The man at the window turned on him with eyes still glistening from
the effects of his cough.
"Wot 'appened next?" he repeated scornfully. "Oh, 'er and me did a
barn dance down the ward, of course!"
The Philosopher handed him back his matches and the photograph which
he was re-studying.
"It's got to come to all on us," he said thoughtfully. "And I bet,
matey, it come easier to that lil girl there than if she'd 'ad to
face it later without a pal at 'er side."
"That's so," assented the Optimist cheerfully, but he tucked the tin
case of cigarettes away with reverent fingers. "What troubles me,"
he said confidentially, "is these 'ere pictures. I can't 'ardly take
'em 'ome to my missus and explain--particularly the poser where me
arm's aholdin' of 'er waist. Under the banana tree. We got 'em took
by a Eurasian mugger wot I'd met."
"Don't you show 'em," warned the Pessimist.
"It ain't a question o' showin," said his friend. "You don't know my
missus. She's a-meetin' me at Waterloo and if she don't turn out me
pockets in the station she'll do it in the bus."
"My 'ole Umbrella is meetin' me too," said the Pessimist, "and she'll
find me all ready to tell 'er that 'ere is the fust petticoat I've
brushed agin' for a twelve-month. So don't you go suggestin' nothin'
different, in a pally way, if you do 'appen to be near."
"Let's 'ope your pockets'll bear you out if I do," said the Optimist.
The Philosopher shifted his position and leant forward. "You take my
tip, 'ole love," he said impressively to the Optimist. "Jes' you
wipe out that lil yaller gal. She's in safer 'ands than yours now
and you can't git at 'er with cigarette smoke, nor nothin' else. You
tear them photographs right now and put them out of the winder. It
ain't no good explainin' 'em to a woman--least of all to one wiv
marriage lines. I know, 'cos once I tried it on. My old missus is
one of them earnest Christians wot do a lot more forgivin' than
forgettin', and 'er forgivin' of me 'as been more'n I can bear for
the last five years. Now, whenever we 'as words, I git the wust of
it straight off, owin' to the 'andle I giv' 'er agin' me. You all of
you poke fun at me for bein' quiet-like, but if you'd seed my missus,
or 'eard 'er, you'd know where I got the 'abit of 'oldin' me tongue.
I go on tip-toe now when there's a gal around 'oo suits me."
The Optimist gazed at him admiringly.
"You're deep," he announced with conviction.
"Nothin' in me pockets or in me kit," wound up the Philosopher, "is
nothin' on me conscience or on me wife's, and no bustin' of the 'appy
'ome. You wipe that lil Frangipani off the slate and forgit the
stink o' them flowers."
The Optimist shuffled the photographs thoughtfully.
"Seems 'ard," he said, running his fingers round the rims.
"Still--'ere goes!"
He tore them up slowly and the fragments were whirled away into space
by the draught outside.
One small piece floated back to his feet.
"This 'ere is the tail of 'er lungi," he said, picking it up.
And then, since there is nothing conceivable in God's world so
sentimental as the British soldier, he slipped it into the
cigarette-case where it could tell no tales.
The Philosopher rose to shut the window for there was a nip in the
air. He looked back up the line and down on the footboards where a
couple of shreds still clung.
"That the best place for _them_," he said with conviction, drawing up
the glass. Then he muttered a profound truth.
"Honesty may be the best policy," he said, "but it ain't the one wot
keeps a weddin'-ring from wearin' loose."
Fortified by which assurance, Cyprian had seen the three Galahads
alight on Waterloo platform, ten minutes later, each to imprint a
chaste salute on the nearest portion of waiting wife, which presented
itself at the carriage door with a string bag, a shabby umbrella and
dewy eyes.
And as, now, in recalling the whole scene which had deeply impressed
him at the time, he compared the insignia of the string bag with that
of the white frangipani flower, the cynicism of the Greek Philosopher
crossed his mind, who summed up the whole conditions of life, since
male and female created He them, in the words:
[Illustration: Greek text]