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himself, watching some tiny, nameless finches eating the seeds of the tall grasses. The cocks were
chrome-yellow, the hens like hen sparrows. Too tiny to bend the stalks, they came whirring towards
them, seized them in mid-flight and bore them to the ground by their own weight. Flory watched the
birds incuriously, and almost hated them because they could light no spark of interest in him. In his
idleness he flung his dah at them, scaring them away. If she were here, if she were here! Everything–
birds, trees, flowers, everything–was deadly and meaningless because she was not here. As the days
passed the knowledge that he had lost her had grown surer and more actual until it poisoned every
moment.
He loitered a little way into the jungle, flicking at creepers with his dah. His limbs felt slack and
leaden. He noticed a wild vanilla plant trailing over a bush, and bent down to sniff at its slender,
fragrant pods. The scent brought him a feeling of staleness and deadly ennui. Alone, alone, in the sea
of life enisled! The pain was so great that he struck his fist against a tree, jarring his arm and splitting
two knuckles. He must go back to Kyauktada. It was folly, for barely a fortnight had passed since the
scene between them, and his only chance was to give her time to forget it. Still, he must go back. He
could not stay any longer in this deadly place, alone with his thoughts among the endless, mindless
leaves.
A happy thought occurred to him. He could take Elizabeth the leopard-skin that was being cured for
her in the jail. It would be a pretext for seeing her, and when one comes bearing gifts one is generally
listened to. This time he would not let her cut him short without a word. He would explain, extenuate–
make her realise that she had been unjust to him. It was not right that she should condemn him because
of Ma Hla May, whom he had turned out of doors for Elizabeth’s own sake. Surely she must forgive
him when she heard the truth of the story? And this time she should hear it; he would force her to
listen to him if he had to hold her by the arms while he did it.
He went back the same evening. It was a twenty-mile journey, by rutted cart-tracks, but Flory
decided to march by night, giving the reason that it was cooler. The servants almost mutinied at the
idea of a night-march, and at the very last moment old Sammy collapsed in a semi-genuine fit and had
to be plied with gin before he could start. It was a moonless night. They made their way by the light of
lanterns, in which Flo’s eyes gleamed like emeralds and the bullocks’ eyes like moonstones. When the
sun was up the servants halted to gather sticks and cook breakfast, but Flory was in a fever to be at
Kyauktada, and he hurried ahead. He had no feeling of tiredness. The thought of the leopard-skin had
filled him with extravagant hopes. He crossed the glittering river by sampan and went straight to Dr
Veraswami’s bungalow, getting there about ten.
The doctor invited him to breakfast, and–having shooed the women into some suitable hidingplace–took
him into his own bathroom so that he could wash and shave. At breakfast the doctor was
very excited and full of denunciations of ‘the crocodile’; for it appeared that the pseudo-rebellion
was now on the point of breaking out. It was not till after breakfast that Flory had an opportunity to
mention the leopard-skin.
‘Oh, by the way, doctor. What about that skin I sent to the jail to be cured? Is it done yet?’
‘Ah——’ said the doctor in a slightly disconcerted manner, rubbing his nose. He went inside the
house–they were breakfasting on the veranda, for the doctor’s wife had protested violently against