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He could not look at her; he stood helpless, pale, hang-dog. Every word she said was justified, and
how tell her that he could do no other man he had done? How tell her that it would have been an
outrage, a sin, to continue as her lover? He almost cringed from her, and the birthmark stood on his
yellow face like a splash of ink. He said flatly, turning instinctively to money–for money had never
failed with Ma Hla May:
‘I will give you money. You shall have the fifty rupees you asked me for–more later. I have no more
till next month.’
This was true. The hundred rupees he had given her, and what he had spent on clothes, had taken
most of his ready money. To his dismay she burst into a loud wail. Her white mask puckered up and
the tears sprang quickly out and coursed down her cheeks. Before he could stop her she had fallen on
her knees in front of him, and she was bowing, touching the floor with her forehead in the ‘full’ shiko
of utter abasement.
‘Get up, get up!’ he exclaimed. The shameful, abject shiko, neck bent, body doubled up as though
inviting a blow, always horrified him. ‘I can’t bear that. Get up this instant.’
She wailed again, and made an attempt to clasp his ankles. He stepped backwards hurriedly.
‘Get up, now, and stop that dreadful noise. I don’t know what you are crying about.’
She did not get up, but only rose to her knees and wailed at him anew. ‘Why do you offer me
money? Do you think it is only for money that I have come back? Do you think that when you have
driven me from your door like a dog it is only because of money that I care?’
‘Get up,’ he repeated. He had moved several paces away, lest she should seize him. ‘What do you
want if it is not money?’
‘Why do you hate me?’ she wailed. ‘What harm have I done you? I stole your cigarette-case, but
you were not angry at that. You are going to marry this white woman, I know it, everyone knows it.
But what does it matter, why must you turn me away? Why do you hate me?’
‘I don’t hate you. I can’t explain. Get up, please get up.’
She was weeping quite shamelessly now. After all, she was hardly more than a child. She looked at
him through her tears, anxiously, studying him for a sign of mercy. Then, a dreadful thing, she
stretched herself at full length, flat on her face.
‘Get up, get up!’ he cried out in English. ‘I can’t bear that–it’s too abominable!’
She did not get up, but crept, wormlike, right across the floor to his feet. Her body made a broad
ribbon on the dusty floor. She lay prostrate in front of him, face hidden, arms extended, as though
before a god’s altar.
‘Master, master,’ she whimpered, ‘will you not forgive me? This once, only this once! Take Ma Hla
May back. I will be your slave, lower than your slave. Anything sooner than turn me away.’
She had wound her arms round his ankles, actually was kissing his shoes. He stood looking down
at her with his hands in his pockets, helpless. Flo came ambling into the room, walked to where Ma
Hla May lay and sniffed at her longyi. She wagged her tail vaguely, recognising the smell. Flory
could not endure it. He bent down and took Ma Hla May by the shoulders, lifting her to her knees.
‘Stand up, now,’ he said. ‘It hurts me to see you like this. I will do what I can for you. What is the
use of crying?’