“No, no,” hastily broke in Salter, “nats are spirits, good spirits or bad, who live in the trees; you will hear enough about them before you are a month in Burma. Their worship is the national faith.”
“But I thought Buddhism——” began Shafto, and hesitated.
“Oh, yes, ostensibly and ostentatiously, but wait and see.”
“I am a Catholic,” announced the child abruptly.
She was excessively self-conscious and anxious to show off before Shafto.
“Are you really?” he said with an incredulous smile.
“Oh, yes, I attend the convent school; I am learning French and dancing, I go to mass; mother goes to the pagoda festivals—mother is a heathen.”
“Rosetta! Mind what you are saying,” sharply interposed Salter; “your mother’s no more a heathen than yourself.”
“Rosetta is a nasty little girl,” said Mrs. Salter, rising, “she forgets herself before company, and must go away to be——”
A succession of shrieks interrupted the verdict.