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longyi. Flory thought he had never noticed before how dark Ma Hla May’s face was, and how
outandish her tiny, stiff body, straight as a solther’s, with not a curve in it except the vase-like curve
of her hips. He stood against the veranda rail and watched the two girls, quite disregarded. For the
best part of a minute neither of them could take her eyes from the other; but which found the spectacle
more grotesque, more incredible, there is no saying.
Ma Hla May turned her face round to Flory, with her black brows, thin as pencil lines, drawn
together. ‘Who is this woman?’ she demanded sullenly.
He answered casually, as though giving an order to a servant:
‘Go away this instant. If you make any trouble I will afterwards take a bamboo and beat you till not
one of your ribs is whole.’
Ma Hla May hesitated, shrugged her small shoulders and disappeared. And the other, gazing after
her, said curiously:
‘Was that a man or a woman?’
‘A woman,’ he said. ‘One of the servants’ wives, I believe. She came to ask about the laundry, that
was all.’
‘Oh, is that what Burmese women are like? They are queer little creatures! I saw a lot of them on
my way up here in the train, but do you know, I thought they were all boys. They’re just like a kind of
Dutch doll, aren’t they?’
She had begun to move towards the veranda steps, having lost interest in Ma Hla May now that she
had disappeared. He did not stop her, for he thought Ma Hla May quite capable of coming back and
making a scene. Not that it mattered much, for neither girl knew a word of the other’s language. He
called to Ko S’la, and Ko S’la came running with a big oiled-silk umbrella with bamboo ribs. He
opened it respectfully at the foot of the steps and held it over the girl’s head as she came down. Flory
went with them as far as the gate. They stopped to shake hands, he turning a little sideways in the
strong sunlight, hiding his birthmark.
‘My fellow here will see you home. It was ever so kind of you to come in. I can’t tell you how glad
I am to have met you. You’ll make such a difference to us here in Kyauktada.’
‘Good-bye, Mr–oh, how funny! I don’t even know your name.’
‘Flory, John Flory. And yours–Miss Lackersteen, is it?’
‘Yes. Elizabeth. Good-bye, Mr Flory. And thank you ever so much. That awful buffalo. You quite
saved my life.’
‘It was nothing. I hope I shall see you at the Club this evening? I expect your uncle and aunt will be
coming down. Good-bye for the time being, then.’
He stood at the gate, watching them as they went. Elizabeth–lovely name, too rare nowadays. He
hoped she spelt it with a ‘z’. Ko S’la trotted after her at a queer uncomfortable gait, reaching the
umbrella over her head and keeping his body as far away from her as possible. A cool breath of wind
blew up the hill. It was one of those momentary winds that blow sometimes in the cold weather in
Burma, coming from nowhere, filling one with thst and with nostalgia for cold sea-pools, embraces of
mermaids, waterfalls, caves of ice. It rustled through the wide domes of the gold mohur trees, and
fluttered the fragments of the anonymous letter that Flory had thrown over the gate half an hour earlier.