Meanwhile Sophy, who remained in the outer shop, was offered a seat and tea, without milk or sugar, in what resembled a doll’s cup; by her aunt’s express desire she always accepted this refreshment, although she found the decoction unspeakably nasty; it seemed to taste of an evil odour. Sometimes Mrs. Krauss would linger for fifteen minutes, sometimes for longer, talking over netsukes and Hong Kong with Ah Shee. The atmosphere of the place was overpowering; such a stifling reek of a mysterious effluvium, the combination of joss sticks, stale fish, rancid oil, and a sickly taint like the fetid breath of some mortal sickness; it made Sophy feel faint and, after a short interval, she invariably made her way into the street, where the air—though by no means fresh—was an improvement on that within the shop.
The street was narrow and squalid and the houses were dilapidated—even for a native quarter; passers-by had a slinking stealthy gait, and cast glances of surprise and suspicion at the young lady who lingered outside the premises of Ah Shee.
One evening, as she waited thus, in the warm, damp dusk, FitzGerald in uniform clattered by; he caught sight of Sophy out of what is called “the tail of the eye,” and pulled up so suddenly as to throw his horse upon its haunches.
“Miss Leigh!” he exclaimed. “Yes, it is! May I ask why you find yourself among the Seven Dials, or devils, of Rangoon?”
“Oh, Aunt Flora comes to Ah Shee’s shop hunting for ivories; she is collecting netsukes.”
“Netsukes!” he repeated; “netsukes here!”
“Oh yes, and such good ones—the best in Burma; but it’s a horrible place, and as to the odours!” and she made a gesture expressive of disgust.
“Yes, by Jove, the Chinese beat all the world in stinks; but I say, Miss Leigh, try to persuade your aunt to hunt elsewhere for ivories—this part of the world is unhealthy.”
“I’m not surprised at that.”
“Be advised by me and make this your last visit to this chinky shop. Well, I must be shoving on,” and he trotted away.