“Humph,” muttered Laurentia, with her most captivating smile. “Very sociable, I must say, all alone. Come, my dear,” she continued, “do send that Chinaman about his business.”
“Not a bit of it,” said van Gulpendam, “we must keep the galley fire in—you seem to forget our bill to John Pryce.”
But the lady had vanished. One of her female attendants had come in and whispered to her mistress that MʻBok Kârijâh was in the kitchen waiting to see her.
This MʻBok Kârijâh was a friend of Nènèh Wong Toewâ and pretty nearly as old as she was; but she had more strings to her bow than Mrs. van Gulpendam’s confidante, for besides being a doekoen, she was also a bepôrrô, a dealer in jewellery.
“Much use her coming now,” muttered the lady, “now that my husband has this Chinaman on his hands.”
She hastened however to her room, and ordered her servant to show the old woman up.
At the entrance of the pandoppo the Chinaman and the old crone met. Neither, however, seemed to have the slightest knowledge of the other; but a smile played upon the lips of the babah. For anyone but MʻBok Kârijâh that smile was no more than the stereotyped smirk which the sallow face of every Celestial wears when he is about to enter the presence of a superior. The old woman, however, knew that it was a smile of inward satisfaction. Preceded by the servant girl she entered the inner gallery and was admitted into the njonja’s bed-chamber, while the Chinaman approached the Resident who sat comfortably balancing himself in his rocking-chair by the side of which was displayed the pajoeng stand which surrounded the high and mighty lord with its lustre of umbrellas.
“Well, babah,” began van Gulpendam as with a careless gesture he motioned the Chinaman to a seat, “Well, babah, what brings you here this hot time of day?”
The Chinaman took a chair without ceremony, and with a sly look he said airily, “Oh I merely came to inquire after the health of the Kandjeng toean.”
“The deuce you have, babah, I must say you might have chosen some other time for that.”