"I mind all them festivals," broke in the Pessimist.
"You minded too many festivals if I don't mis-remember," retorted the Optimist. "I 'eard wot the sergeant said afterwards about you, my man."
"It's a temple wot makes your mouth water, that," ruminated the Philosopher, turning the discussion.
"It ain't the temple wot affects me that way," said the Optimist decisively, "it's wot sits on the steps."
"I ain't seen none to equal the Daggone lot," agreed the Pessimist.
And, in a flash, behind Cyprian's paper, light broke upon a vision of the Shwe Dagon Pagoda at festival time with its flight of steps bright with humanity in coats of many colours. Yellow-robed, shaven priests, gay-turbaned sweet-sellers, picturesque beggars and always girls, girls. Girls in soft lungis of peach-coloured silk, heliotrope, dull-rose and lemon; for unlike the Hindu woman the Burmese has an artistic sense of colour highly developed.
Cyprian had never seen a native of Burma crudely clad. His thoughts wandered.
"She 'adn't got the sort of name a parson could 'a got round his tongue at the font," the Optimist was saying when he again turned his attention to him, "Always supposin' she'd want 'im in that capacity. She wore them frangipani flowers be'ind 'er ears. Woof! Whot a jolly stink they 'ad."
The other two puffed acquiescence.
"Used ter remind me of a Putney bus on a 'ot day," soliloquized the Pessimist, "I once picked up a lady's 'andkerchief in a Putney bus. But no matter...."