Amiria laughed again. “First, he is handsome; next, he is a rangatira, well-born, as my husband ought to be. I really don’t know his name. Can’t you guess that is what I have come to find out?”
“You goose. You’ve come to unburden yourself. You were just dying to tell me the story.”
They had paused on the verandah, where they sat on a wooden seat in the shade.
“Anyway, the wreck is better for the Maori than a sitting of the Land Court—there! The shore is covered with boxes and bales and all manner of things. There are ready-made clothes for everyone in the pa, boots, tea, tobacco, sugar, everything that the people want—all brought ashore from the wreck and strewn along the beach. The Customs’ Officers get some, but the Maori gets most. I’ve brought you a memento.”
She put her hand into the pocket of her riding-habit, and drew out a little packet. “That is for you—a souvenir of the wreck.”
“Isn’t it rather like stealing, to take what really belongs to other people?”
“Rubbish! Open it, and see for yourself,” said Amiria, smiling.
Rose undid the packet’s covering, and disclosed a black leather-covered case, much the worse for wear.
“It isn’t injured by the water—it was in a tin-lined box,” said the Maori girl. “It opens like a card-case.”
Rose opened the little receptacle, which divided in the middle, and there lay exposed a miniature portrait framed in oxidized silver.