---
title: "Burmese Days"
author: "George Orwell"
languages: [en]
shelf: "Literature"
section: 23 of 25
url: https://scriptura.si/works/orwell-burmese-days-fp20180520/23/
cite: "George Orwell, Burmese Days, section 23. Scriptura (scriptura.si), https://scriptura.si/works/orwell-burmese-days-fp20180520/23/"
---

# Burmese Days

*George Orwell*

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> _Title:_ Burmese Days
_Date of first publication:_ 1934
_Author:_ Eric Blair (as George Orwell) (1903-1950)
_Date first posted:_ May 21, 2018
_Date last updated:_ May 21, 2018
Faded Page eBook #20180520

> This ebook was produced by: Delphine Lettau, Cindy Beyer & the online
Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

> [Cover Illustration]

> GEORGE  ORWELL

> Burmese  Days

> This desert inaccessible
               Under the shade of melancholy boughs.

> _As You Like It_

> First published in the USA by Harper & Brothers, New York 1934
           Published in Great Britain by Victor Gollancz 1935

> Copyright 1934 by Eric Blair

> [Illustration: Map of Kyauktada]

> TRANSCRIBER NOTES

> Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple
spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

> Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors
occur.

> [The end of _Burmese Days_ by Eric Blair (as George Orwell)]

## 23. XXIII

Source: https://scriptura.si/works/orwell-burmese-days-fp20180520/23/ · cite a paragraph as https://scriptura.si/works/orwell-burmese-days-fp20180520/23/#p-N

[¶0] Next day the town was quieter than a cathedral city on Monday morning.
It is usually the case after a riot. Except for the handful of
prisoners, everyone who could possibly have been concerned in the attack
on the Club had a watertight alibi. The Club garden looked as though a
herd of bison had stampeded across it, but the houses had not been
plundered, and there were no new casualties among the Europeans, except
that after everything was over Mr Lackersteen had been found very drunk
under the billiard-table, where he had retired with a bottle of whisky.
Westfield and Verrall came back early in the morning, bringing Maxwell’s
murderers under arrest; or at any rate, bringing two people who would
presently be hanged for Maxwell’s murder. Westfield, when he heard the
news of the riot, was gloomy but resigned. _Again_ it had happened—a
veritable riot, and he not there to quell it! It seemed fated that he
should never kill a man. Depressing, depressing. Verrall’s only comment
was that it had been ‘damned lip’ on the part of Flory (a civilian) to
give orders to the Military Police.

[¶1] Meanwhile, it was raining almost without cease. As soon as he woke up
and heard the rain hammering on the roof Flory dressed and hurried out,
Flo following. Out of sight of the houses he took off his clothes and
let the rain sluice down on his bare body. To his surprise, he found
that he was covered with bruises from last night; but the rain had
washed away every trace of his prickly heat within three minutes. It is
wonderful, the healing power of rain-water. Flory walked down to Dr
Veraswami’s house, with his shoes squelching and periodical jets of
water flowing down his neck from the brim of his Terai hat. The sky was
leaden, and innumerable whirling storms chased one another across the
_maidan_ like squadrons of cavalry. Burmans passed, under vast wooden
hats in spite of which their bodies streamed water like the bronze gods
in the fountains. A network of rivulets was already washing the stones
of the road bare. The doctor had just got home when Flory arrived, and
was shaking a wet umbrella over the veranda rail. He hailed Flory
excitedly.

[¶2] ‘Come up, Mr Flory, come up at once! You are just apropos. I wass on the
point of opening a bottle of Old Tommy Gin. Come up and let me drink to
your health, ass the saviour of Kyauktada!’

[¶3] They had a long talk together. The doctor was in a triumphant mood. It
appeared that what had happened last night had righted his troubles
almost miraculously. U Po Kyin’s schemes were undone. The doctor was no
longer at his mercy—in fact, it was the other way about. The doctor
explained to Flory:

[¶4] ‘You see, my friend, this riot—or rather, your most noble behaviour in
it—wass quite outside U Po Kyin’s programme. He had started the
_so-called_ rebellion and had the glory of crushing it, and he
calculated that any further outbreak would simply mean more glory still.
I am told that when he heard of Mr Maxwell’s death, hiss joy wass
positively’—the doctor nipped his thumb and forefinger together—‘what
iss the word I want?’

[¶5] ‘Obscene?’

[¶6] ‘Ah yes. Obscene. It iss said that actually he attempted to dance—can
you imagine such a disgusting spectacle?—and exclaimed, “Now at least
they will take my rebellion seriously!” Such iss hiss regard for human
life. But now hiss triumph iss at an end. The riot hass tripped him up
in mid-career.’

[¶7] ‘How?’

[¶8] ‘Because, do you not see, the honours of the riot are not hiss, but
yours! And I am known to be your friend. I stand, so to speak, in the
reflection of your glory. Are you not the hero of the hour? Did not your
European friends receive you with open arms when you returned to the
Club last night?’

[¶9] ‘They did, I must admit. It was quite a new experience for me. Mrs
Lackersteen was all over me. “_Dear_ Mr Flory”, she calls me now. And
she’s got her knife properly into Ellis. She hasn’t forgotten that he
called her a bloody hag and told her to stop squealing like a pig.’

[¶10] ‘Ah, Mr Ellis iss sometimes over-emphatic in hiss expressions. I have
noticed it.’

[¶11] ‘The only fly in the ointment is that I told the police to fire over the
crowd’s heads instead of straight at them. It seems that’s against all
the Government regulations. Ellis was a little vexed about it. “Why
didn’t you plug some of the b——s when you had the chance?” he said. I
pointed out that it would have meant hitting the police who were in the
middle of the crowd; but as he said, they were only niggers anyway.
However, all my sins are forgiven me. And Macgregor quoted something in
Latin—Horace, I believe.’

[¶12] It was half an hour later when Flory walked along to the Club. He had
promised to see Mr Macgregor and settle the business of the doctor’s
election. But there would be no difficulty about it now. The others
would eat out of his hand until the absurd riot was forgotten; he could
have gone into the Club and made a speech in favour of Lenin, and they
would have put up with it. The lovely rain streamed down, drenching him
from head to foot, and filling his nostrils with the scent of earth,
forgotten during the bitter months of drought. He walked up the wrecked
garden, where the _mali_, bending down with the rain splashing on his
bare back, was trowelling holes for zinnias. Nearly all the flowers had
been trampled out of existence. Elizabeth was there, on the side
veranda, almost as though she were waiting for him. He took off his hat,
spilling a pool of water from the brim, and went round to join her.

[¶13] ‘Good morning!’ he said, raising his voice because of the rain that beat
noisily on the low roof.

[¶14] ‘Good morning! _Isn’t_ it coming down? Simply _pelting_!’

[¶15] ‘Oh, this isn’t real rain. You wait till July. The whole Bay of Bengal
is going to pour itself on us, by instalments.’

[¶16] It seemed that they must never meet without talking of the weather.
Nevertheless, her face said something very different from the banal
words. Her demeanour had changed utterly since last night. He took
courage.

[¶17] ‘How is the place where that stone hit you?’

[¶18] She held her arm out to him and let him take it. Her air was gentle,
even submissive. He realised that his exploit of last night had made him
almost a hero in her eyes. She could not know how small the danger had
really been, and she forgave him everything, even Ma Hla May, because he
had shown courage at the right moment. It was the buffalo and the
leopard over again. His heart thumped in his breast. He slipped his hand
down her arm and clasped her fingers in his own.

[¶19] ‘Elizabeth——’

[¶20] ‘Someone will see us!’ she said, and she withdrew her hand, but not
angrily.

[¶21] ‘Elizabeth, I’ve something I want to say to you. Do you remember a
letter I wrote you from the jungle, after our—some weeks ago?’

[¶22] ‘Yes.’

[¶23] ‘You remember what I said in it?’

[¶24] ‘Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t answer it. Only——’

[¶25] ‘I couldn’t expect you to answer it, then. But I just wanted to remind
you of what I said.’

[¶26] In the letter, of course, he had only said, and feebly enough, that he
loved her—would always love her, no matter what happened. They were
standing face to face, very close together. On an impulse—and it was so
swiftly done that afterwards he had difficulty in believing that it had
ever happened—he took her in his arms and drew her towards him. For a
moment she yielded and let him lift up her face and kiss her; then
suddenly she recoiled and shook her head. Perhaps she was frightened
that someone would see them, perhaps it was only because his moustache
was so wet from the rain. Without saying anything more she broke from
him and hurried away into the Club. There was a look of distress or
compunction in her face; but she did not seem angry.

[¶27] He followed her more slowly into the Club, and ran into Mr Macgregor,
who was in a very good humour. As soon as he saw Flory he boomed
genially, ‘Aha! The conquering hero comes!’ and then, in a more serious
vein, offered him fresh congratulations. Flory improved the occasion by
saying a few words on behalf of the doctor. He painted quite a lively
picture of the doctor’s heroism in the riot. ‘He was right in the middle
of the crowd, fighting like a tiger,’ etc. etc. It was not too much
exaggerated—for the doctor had certainly risked his life. Mr Macgregor
was impressed, and so were the others when they heard of it. At all
times the testimony of one European can do an Oriental more good than
that of a thousand of his fellow countrymen; and at this moment Flory’s
opinion carried weight. Practically, the doctor’s good name was
restored. His election to the Club could be taken as assured.

[¶28] However, it was not finally agreed upon yet, because Flory was returning
to camp. He set out the same evening, marching by night, and he did not
see Elizabeth again before leaving. It was quite safe to travel in the
jungle now, for the futile rebellion was obviously finished. There is
seldom any talk of rebellion after the rains have started—the Burmans
are too busy ploughing, and in any case the waterlogged fields are
impassable for large bodies of men. Flory was to return to Kyauktada in
ten days, when the padre’s six-weekly visit fell due. The truth was that
he did not care to be in Kyauktada while both Elizabeth and Verrall were
there. And yet, it was strange, but all the bitterness—all the obscene,
crawling envy that had tormented him before—was gone now that he knew
she had forgiven him. It was only Verrall who stood between them now.
And even the thought of her in Verrall’s arms could hardly move him,
because he knew that at the worst the affair must have an end. Verrall,
it was quite certain, would never marry Elizabeth; young men of
Verrall’s stamp do not marry penniless girls met casually at obscure
Indian stations. He was only amusing himself with Elizabeth. Presently
he would desert her, and she would return to him—to Flory. It was
enough—it was far better than he had hoped. There is a humility about
genuine love that is rather horrible in some ways.

[¶29] U Po Kyin was furiously angry. The miserable riot had taken him
unawares, so far as anything ever took him unawares, and it was like a
handful of grit thrown into the machinery of his plans. The business of
disgracing the doctor had got to be begun all over again. Begun it was,
sure enough, with such a spate of anonymous letters that Hla Pe had to
absent himself from office for two whole days—it was bronchitis this
time—to get them written. The doctor was accused of every crime from
pederasty to stealing Government postage stamps. The prison warder who
had let Nga Shwe O escape had now come up for trial. He was triumphantly
acquitted, U Po Kyin having spent as much as two hundred rupees in
bribing the witnesses. More letters showered upon Mr Macgregor, proving
in detail that Dr Veraswami, the real author of the escape, had tried to
shift the blame onto a helpless subordinate. Nevertheless, the results
were disappointing. The confidential letter which Mr Macgregor wrote to
the Commissioner, reporting on the riot, was steamed open, and its tone
was so alarming—Mr Macgregor had spoken of the doctor as ‘behaving most
creditably’ on the night of the riot—that U Po Kyin called a council of
war.

[¶30] ‘The time has come for a vigorous move,’ he said to the others—they
were in conclave on the front veranda, before breakfast. Ma Kin was
there, and Ba Sein and Hla Pe—the latter a bright-faced, promising boy
of eighteen, with the manner of one who will certainly succeed in life.

[¶31] ‘We are hammering against a brick wall,’ U Po Kyin continued; ‘and that
wall is Flory. Who could have foreseen that that miserable coward would
stand by his friend? However, there it is. So long as Veraswami has his
backing, we are helpless.’

[¶32] ‘I have been talking to the Club butler, sir,’ said Ba Sein. ‘He tells
me that Mr Ellis and Mr Westfield still do not want the doctor to be
elected to the Club. Do you not think they will quarrel with Flory again
as soon as this business of the riot is forgotten?’

[¶33] ‘Of course they will quarrel, they always quarrel. But in the meantime
the harm is done. Just suppose that man _were_ elected! I believe I
should die of rage if it happened. No, there is only one move left. We
must strike at Flory himself.’

[¶34] ‘At Flory, sir! But he is a white man!’

[¶35] ‘What do I care? I have ruined white men before now. Once let Flory be
disgraced, and there is an end of the doctor. And he shall be disgraced!
I will shame him so that he will never dare show his face in that Club
again!’

[¶36] ‘But, sir! A white man! What are we to accuse him of? Who would believe
anything against a white man?’

[¶37] ‘You have no strategy, Ko Ba Sein. One does not _accuse_ a white man;
one has got to catch him in the act. Public disgrace, _in flagrante
delicto_. I shall know how to set about it. Now be silent while I
think.’

[¶38] There was a pause. U Po Kyin stood gazing out into the rain with his
small hands clasped behind him and resting on the natural plateau of his
posterior. The other three watched him from the end of the veranda,
almost frightened by this talk of attacking a white man, and waiting for
some masterstroke to cope with a situation that was beyond them. It was
a little like the familiar picture (is it Meissonier’s?) of Napoleon at
Moscow, poring over his maps while his marshals wait in silence, with
their cocked hats in their hands. But of course U Po Kyin was more equal
to the situation than Napoleon. His plan was ready within two minutes.
When he turned round his vast face was suffused with excessive joy. The
doctor had been mistaken when he described U Po Kyin as attempting to
dance; U Po Kyin’s figure was not designed for dancing; but, had it been
so designed, he would have danced at this moment. He beckoned to Ba Sein
and whispered in his ear for a few seconds.

[¶39] ‘That is the correct move, I think?’ he concluded.

[¶40] A broad, unwilling, incredulous grin stole slowly across Ba Sein’s face.

[¶41] ‘Fifty rupees ought to cover all the expenses,’ added U Po Kyin,
beaming.

[¶42] The plan was unfolded in detail. And when the others had taken it in,
all of them, even Ba Sein, who seldom laughed, even Ma Kin, who
disapproved from the bottom of her soul, burst into irrepressible peals
of laughter. The plan was really too good to be resisted. It was genius.

[¶43] All the while it was raining, raining. The day after Flory went back to
camp it rained for thirty-eight hours at a stretch, sometimes slowing to
the pace of English rain, sometimes pouring down in such cataracts that
one thought the whole ocean must by now have been sucked up into the
clouds. The rattling on the roof became maddening after a few hours. In
the intervals between the rain the sun glared as fiercely as ever, the
mud began to crack and steam, and patches of prickly heat sprang out all
over one’s body. Hordes of flying beetles had emerged from their cocoons
as soon as the rain started; there was a plague of loathly creatures
known as stink-bugs, which invaded the houses in incredible numbers,
littered themselves over the dining-table and made one’s food uneatable.
Verrall and Elizabeth still went out riding in the evenings, when the
rain was not too fierce. To Verrall, all climates were alike, but he did
not like to see his ponies plastered with mud. Nearly a week went by.
Nothing was changed between them—they were neither less nor more
intimate than they had been before. The proposal of marriage, still
confidently expected, was still unuttered. Then an alarming thing
happened. The news filtered to the Club, through Mr Macgregor, that
Verrall was leaving Kyauktada; the Military Police were to be kept at
Kyauktada, but another officer was coming in Verrall’s place, no one was
certain when. Elizabeth was in horrible suspense. Surely, if he was
going away, he must say something definite soon? She could not question
him—dared not even ask him whether he was really going; she could only
wait for him to speak. He said nothing. Then one evening, without
warning, he failed to turn up at the Club. And two whole days passed
during which Elizabeth did not see him at all.

[¶44] It was dreadful, but there was nothing that could be done. Verrall and
Elizabeth had been inseparable for weeks, and yet in a way they were
almost strangers. He had kept himself so aloof from them all—had never
even seen the inside of the Lackersteens’ house. They did not know him
well enough to seek him out at the _dak_ bungalow, or write to him; nor
did he reappear at morning parade on the _maidan_. There was nothing to
do except wait until he chose to present himself again. And when he did,
would he ask her to marry him? Surely, surely he must! Both Elizabeth
and her aunt (but neither of them had ever spoken of it openly) held it
as an article of faith that he must ask her. Elizabeth looked forward to
their next meeting with a hope that was almost painful. Please God it
would be a week at least before he went! If she rode with him four times
more, or three times—even if it were only twice, all might yet be well.
Please God he would come back to her soon! It was unthinkable that when
he came, it would only be to say good-bye! The two women went down to
the Club each evening and sat there until quite late at night, listening
for Verrall’s footsteps outside while seeming not to listen; but he
never appeared. Ellis, who understood the situation perfectly, watched
Elizabeth with spiteful amusement. What made it worst of all was that Mr
Lackersteen was now pestering Elizabeth unceasingly. He had become quite
reckless. Almost under the eyes of the servants he would waylay her,
catch hold of her and begin pinching and fondling her in the most
revolting way. Her sole defence was to threaten that she would tell her
aunt; happily he was too stupid to realise that she would never dare do
it.

[¶45] On the third morning Elizabeth and her aunt arrived at the Club just in
time to escape a violent storm of rain. They had been sitting in the
lounge for a few minutes when they heard the sound of someone stamping
the water off his shoes in the passage. Each woman’s heart stirred, for
this might be Verrall. Then a young man entered the lounge, unbuttoning
a long raincoat as he came. He was a stout, rollicking, chuckle-headed
youth of about twenty-five, with fat fresh cheeks, butter-coloured hair,
no forehead, and, as it turned out afterwards, a deafening laugh.

[¶46] Mrs Lackersteen made some inarticulate sound—it was jerked out of her
by her disappointment. The youth, however, hailed them with immediate
bonhomie, being one of those who are on terms of slangy intimacy with
everyone from the moment of meeting them.

[¶47] ‘Hullo, hullo!’ he said. ‘Enter the fairy prince! Hope I don’t sort of
intrude and all that? Not shoving in on any family gatherings or
anything?’

[¶48] ‘Not at all!’ said Mrs Lackersteen in surprise.

[¶49] ‘What I mean to say—thought I’d just pop in at the Club and have a
glance round, don’t you know. Just to get acclimatised to the local
brand of whisky. I only got here last night.’

[¶50] ‘Are you _stationed_ here?’ said Mrs Lackersteen, mystified—for they
had not been expecting any newcomers.

[¶51] ‘Yes, rather. Pleasure’s mine, entirely.’

[¶52] ‘But we hadn’t heard. . . Oh, of course! I suppose you’re from the
Forest Department? In place of poor Mr Maxwell?’

[¶53] ‘What? Forest Department? No fear! I’m the new Military Police bloke,
you know.’

[¶54] ‘The—what?’

[¶55] ‘New Military Police bloke. Taking over from dear ole Verrall. The dear
ole chap’s got orders to go back to his regiment. Going off in a fearful
hurry. And a nice mess he’s left everything in for yours truly, too.’

[¶56] The Military Policeman was a crass youth, but even he noticed that
Elizabeth’s face turned suddenly sickly. She found herself quite unable
to speak. It was several seconds before Mrs Lackersteen managed to
exclaim.

[¶57] ‘Mr Verrall—going? Surely he isn’t going away _yet_?’

[¶58] ‘Going? He’s gone!’

[¶59] ‘_Gone?_’

[¶60] ‘Well, what I mean to say—train’s due to start in about half an hour.
He’ll be along at the station now. I sent a fatigue party to look after
him. Got to get his ponies aboard and all that.’

[¶61] There were probably further explanations, but neither Elizabeth nor her
aunt heard a word of them. In any case, without even a good-bye to the
Military Policeman, they were out on the front steps within fifteen
seconds. Mrs Lackersteen called sharply for the butler.

[¶62] ‘Butler! Send my rickshaw round to the front at once! To the station,
_jaldi_!’ she added as the rickshaw-man appeared, and, having settled
herself in the rickshaw, poked him in the back with the ferrule of her
umbrella to start him.

[¶63] Elizabeth had put on her raincoat and Mrs Lackersteen was cowering in
the rickshaw behind her umbrella, but neither was much use against the
rain. It came driving towards them in such sheets that Elizabeth’s frock
was soaked before they had reached the gate, and the rickshaw almost
overturned in the wind. The rickshaw-wallah put his head down and
struggled into it, groaning. Elizabeth was in agony. It was a mistake,
_surely_ it was a mistake. He had written to her and the letter had gone
astray. That was it, that _must_ be it! It could not be that he had
meant to leave her without even saying good-bye! And if it were so—no,
not even then would she give up hope! When he saw her on the platform,
for the last time, he could not be so brutal as to forsake her! As they
neared the station she fell behind the rickshaw and pinched her cheeks
to bring the blood into them. A squad of Military Police sepoys shuffled
hurriedly by, their thin uniforms sodden into rags, pushing a handcart
among them. Those would be Verrall’s fatigue party. Thank God, there was
a quarter of an hour yet. The train was not due to leave for another
quarter of an hour. Thank God, at least, for this last chance of seeing
him!

[¶64] They arrived on the platform just in time to see the train draw out of
the station and gather speed with a series of deafening snorts. The
stationmaster, a little round, black man, was standing on the line
looking ruefully after the train, and holding his waterproof-covered
topi onto his head with one hand, while with the other he fended off two
clamorous Indians who were bobbing at him and trying to thrust something
upon his attention. Mrs Lackersteen leaned out of the rickshaw and
called agitatedly through the rain.

[¶65] ‘Stationmaster!’

[¶66] ‘Madam!’

[¶67] ‘What train is that?’

[¶68] ‘That is the Mandalay train, madam.’

[¶69] ‘The Mandalay train! It can’t be!’

[¶70] ‘But I assure you, madam! It is precisely the Mandalay train.’ He came
towards them, removing his topi.

[¶71] ‘But Mr Verrall—the Police officer? Surely he’s not on it?’

[¶72] ‘Yes, madam, he have departed.’ He waved his hand towards the train, now
receding rapidly in a cloud of rain and steam.

[¶73] ‘But the train wasn’t due to start yet!’

[¶74] ‘No, madam. Not due to start for another ten minutes.’

[¶75] ‘Then why has it gone?’

[¶76] The stationmaster waved his topi apologetically from side to side. His
dark, squabby face looked quite distressed.

[¶77] ‘I know, madam, I know! _Most_ unprecedented! But the young Military
Police officer have positively _commanded_ me to start the train! He
declare that all is ready and he do not wish to be kept waiting. I point
out the irregularity. He say he do not care about irregularity. I
expostulate. He insist. And in short——’

[¶78] He made another gesture. It meant that Verrall was the kind of man who
would have his way, even when it came to starting a train ten minutes
early. There was a pause. The two Indians, imagining that they saw their
chance, suddenly rushed forward, wailing, and offered some grubby
notebooks for Mrs Lackersteen’s inspection.

[¶79] ‘What _do_ these men want?’ cried Mrs Lackersteen distractedly.

[¶80] ‘They are grass-wallahs, madam. They say that Lieutenant Verrall have
departed owing them large sums of money. One for hay, the other for
corn. Of mine it is no affair.’

[¶81] There was a hoot from the distant train. It rolled round the bend, like
a black-behinded caterpillar that looks over its shoulder as it goes,
and vanished. The stationmaster’s wet white trousers flapped forlornly
about his legs. Whether Verrall had started the train early to escape
Elizabeth, or to escape the grass-wallahs, was an interesting question
that was never cleared up.

[¶82] They made their way back along the road, and then struggled up the hill
in such a wind that sometimes they were driven several paces backwards.
When they gained the veranda they were quite out of breath. The servants
took their streaming raincoats, and Elizabeth shook some of the water
from her hair. Mrs Lackersteen broke her silence for the first time
since they had left the station:

[¶83] ‘_Well!_ Of all the unmannerly—of all the simply _abominable_ . . . !’

[¶84] Elizabeth looked pale and sickly, in spite of the rain and wind that had
beaten into her face. But she would betray nothing.

[¶85] ‘I think he might have waited to say good-bye to us,’ she said coldly.

[¶86] ‘Take my word for it, dear, you are thoroughly well rid of him! . . . As
I said from the start, a most _odious_ young man!’

[¶87] Some time later, when they were sitting down to breakfast, having bathed
and got into dry clothes, and feeling better, she remarked:

[¶88] ‘Let me see, what day is this?’

[¶89] ‘Saturday, aunt.’

[¶90] ‘Ah, Saturday. Then the dear padre will be arriving this evening. How
many shall we be for the service tomorrow? Why, I think we shall _all_
be here! How very nice! Mr Flory will be here too. I think he said he
was coming back from the jungle tomorrow.’ She added almost lovingly,
‘_Dear_ Mr Flory!’