“George,” said Helen gravely, “why do you say in this case she?”
“I think you’ll find it was your virtuous maid, my dear. It wasn’t the bearer—he has permitted me to keep the same knife and nail scissors now for two years and a half, and the rest of the servants, all but the ayah, are the bearer’s creatures, and will reflect exactly his morality in quality and degree. She isn’t—she’s an irresponsible functionary, except to you; you’ll have to keep an eye on her. However, if we make ourselves patiently and unremittingly disagreeable for a week or two they’ll turn up.”
“I haven’t the Hindustani to be disagreeable in,” Helen remarked.
“Oh, you needn’t be violent; just inquire at least three times a day, ‘Hamara kinchi, kidder gia?’[[52]] and look forbidding the rest of the time. Never dream for a moment they’re stolen or admit they’re lost. It’s a kind of worry she won’t be able to stand—she’ll never know what you’re going to do. And she’ll conclude it’s cheaper in the end to restore them.”
[52]. My scissors, where have they gone?
I don’t know whether the Brownes made themselves as disagreeable as they might about the kinchi, but it was a long time before they were restored. Then an accident disclosed them at the bottom of an impossible vase. Chua, standing by, went through an extravaganza of gratification. Her eyes shone, she laughed and clasped her hands with dramatic effect. “Eggi bat”[[53]]—would the memsahib inform the sahib and also the bearer that they had been found?—the latter evidently having resorted lately to some nefarious means of extracting from her what she had done with them. Chua had doubtless had an uncomfortable quarter of an hour before her mistress discovered them, and felt unjustly served in it. For the theft was only a prospective one, to be accomplished in the course of time, if it looked advisable. It did not look advisable and Chua reconsidered it, thereby leaving her Mohammedan conscience void of offence.
[53]. One word.
As soon as she was able to understand and be understood, Helen thought it her duty to make some kindly enquiries about Chua’s domestic affairs. Had she, for instance, any children?
“Na, memsahib!” she responded, with a look of assumed contempt that could not have sat more emphatically upon the face of any fin de siècle lady who does not believe in babies. “Baba hai na! Baba na muncta,”[[54]] she went on with a large curl of the lip, “Baba all time cry kurta[[55]]—Waow! Waow! atcha na,[[56]] memsahib!”
[54]. I do not want babies.