CHAPTER IX
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:
