THE SIAMESE CAT
the head; but the verandah was empty. A table with a tray of bottles stood near the rail. Except for this and a few rattan chairs, the place was meagrely furnished; the pillars were patched with rusty mould; and missing the swing of the punkah, Owen looked upward to find the bare ropes dangling.
"Pardon ze ap-pear-ance," said a soft voice behind him. The lady from Mauritius, smiling mischief, stepped forward into the verandah. "It is all in ver great des-ordre, is it not? Ve are pre-paring for ze paint. What a mees-er-able r-rain! You vill haf a pahit?" She mixed the gin and bitters skilfully. They drank together, the lady pledging with coy, Jonsonian eyes.
"Oh, I am forgetting," she cried in arch dismay. "Mrs. Hol-bo-row, she spiks wiz you before ze tiffin."
With what, in Anglo-Saxon glances, would
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