“What have you seen?”
“Oh, well, wrestling, tattooing and cock-fights; I have been once up the river as far as Prome, and to several native shows, including a funeral.”
“How have you managed that?”
“Salter, a fellow in our house, took me; the funeral was a strange affair—not a bit like ours; everyone in gala clothes, great feasting and a band in the house; altogether a lively entertainment. When a man is dying, his friends come and gather round and cheer him, and tell him of all the good deeds he has done in his lifetime. At the graveside there is an extraordinary business with a silk handkerchief, in which the nearest relation is supposed to catch and enclose the departed spirit, now in the form of a white butterfly—and dangerous to mortals for seven days and nights. I have seen a good deal of native life already.”
“How lucky you are!” exclaimed the girl; “and I’ve seen nothing but Germans.”
“Salter has taken me about and naturally he has extra opportunities, being married to a Burmese.”
“Married to a Burmese?” echoed Sophy; her tone was incredulous.
“Yes. At one time it was quite a common thing. Mrs. Salter—her real name is Mee Lay—is sitting over there in about the fifth row back, behind the fellow with the scarlet handkerchief twisted round his head. Presently you must turn and look at her. She is a nice, cheery woman, and Salter is an interesting, original sort of man. I dine with them now and then. Mee Lay is uncommonly businesslike—has a good deal of land and a flourishing rice concern.”
“She has? How amazing!”
“I see you don’t know much of Burma yet.”