“I know not. It is written that one heart will break.”
“He will leave her?”
“He will leave her. He will have no choice—who can war with Fate?”
The sun shifts a little; a light breeze kisses the motionless palm leaves—they quiver gracefully. Attendants appear R. and L. bearing a great Shamiana (tent), silver poles, carved chairs, foot supports, fruit, flowers, embroidered fans. Three musicians in semi-Venetian-Burmese costume follow with their instruments. The tent erected, enter (C.) meng beng and mah phru, followed by two Burmese women carrying two tiny children in Burmese fashion on their hips.
The servants retire to a distance. meng beng and mah phru seat themselves on carven chairs; the children are placed at their feet and given coloured glass balls to play with. meng beng and mah phru gaze at them with deep affection and then at each other.
The musicians play light, zephyr-like
airs. meng beng and mah phru talk together. meng beng smokes a cigar, mah phru has one of the big yellow cheroots affected by Burmese women to-day.
“It wants but two days to the two years,” he tells her sadly.
“And you are happy?”
“As a god.”