"I asked you a question, Cho Seng," she pointed out.
The Chinaman salaamed again, even lower than before. His face was imperturbable as he repeated in the same mild, disarming accents:
"What for um you wantee me?"
Koyala made a moue.
"That isn't what I asked you, Cho Seng," she exclaimed petulantly.
The Chinaman did not move a muscle. Silent, calm as a deep-sea bottom, his glance fixed unwaveringly on a little spot of black earth near Koyala's foot, he awaited her reply.
Leveque's daughter shrugged her shoulders in hopeless resignation. Ever since she had known him she had tried to surprise him into expressing some emotion. Admiration, fear, grief, vanity, cupidity—on all these chords she had played without producing response. His imperturbability roused her curiosity, his indifference to her beauty piqued her, and, womanlike, she exerted herself to rouse his interest that she might punish him. So far she had been unsuccessful, but that only gave keener zest to the game. Koyala was half Dyak, she had in her veins the blood of the little brown brother who follows his enemy for months, sometimes years, until he brings home another dripping head to set on his lodge-pole. Patience was therefore her birthright.
"Very well, Cho Seng, if you think I am ugly—" She paused and arched an eyebrow to see the effect of her words. Cho Seng's face was as rigid as though carved out of rock. When she saw he did not intend to dispute her, Koyala flushed and concluded sharply:
"—then we will talk of other things. What has happened at the residency during the past week?"
Cho Seng shot a furtive glance upward. "What for um?" he asked cautiously.