“Oh, do forgive her, please!” implored Shafto; “I ask it as a favour, a special favour.”
Meanwhile Rosetta clung to her mother apostrophising her in an unknown tongue, then with piercing screams, entirely regardless of her beautiful clean frock, she flung herself flat upon the floor.
If Shafto had been inclined to meditation, he might have reflected on the future of the offspring of two such divergent countries as the West Riding of Yorkshire and Pegu. At one moment the prim, well-mannered English girl; the next, an impulsive, emotional daughter of the Far East. When she grew to woman’s estate, which of the races would predominate?
Meanwhile, as Rosetta lay prone and kicking upon the dhurri, her father murmured apologetically:
“When the lassie is a bit over-fired and excited, she doesn’t know what she is saying.”
Mee Lay raised her struggling offspring, was about to bear her away and give her “Tap Tap,” when again Shafto interposed:
“Oh, I say, do forgive her this time, please, Mrs. Salter. This is my first day in Rangoon—and I ask it as a particular favour.”
Mee Lay, an adoring parent, was by no means reluctant to grant his petition, and when the tearful culprit was released and set down, she turned to Shafto and said in her piping treble:
“Thank you, nice gentleman, but she would not have hurt me much. It was not I who said mother was a heathen savage, but Ethel Lucas, and I slapped her, so I did—and Sister gave me a bad mark. I, too, go to the pagoda festivals and like them awfully much. There are bells and beads, and flowers and priests, the same as in the convent.”
“Now that peace has been declared, Rosetta, here is a chocolate,” said her father, “and you can go to bed. Shafto, we will adjourn into the veranda to smoke, watch the rising moon, and listen to the hum of the bazaar—a new sound for your ears!”