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contemplation of so much loveliness met so suddenly in such an unlikely place — as he thought.
    “It is my daughter,” said Almayer, in an embarrassed manner.  “It is of no consequence.  White women have their customs, as you know Tuan, having travelled much, as you say.  However, it is late; we will finish our talk to-morrow.”
    Dain bent low trying to convey in a last glance towards the girl the bold expression of his overwhelming admiration.  The next minute he was shaking Almayer’s hand with grave courtesy, his face wearing a look of stolid unconcern as to any feminine presence.  His men filed off, and he followed them quickly, closely attended by a thick-set, savage-looking Sumatrese he had introduced before as the commander of his brig.  Nina walked to the balustrade of the verandah and saw the sheen of moonlight on the steel spear-heads and heard the rhythmic jingle of brass anklets as the men moved in single file towards the jetty.  The boat shoved off after a little while, looming large in the full light of the moon, a black shapeless mass in the slight haze hanging over the water.  Nina fancied she could distinguish the graceful figure of the trader standing erect in the stern sheets, but in a little while all the outlines got blurred, confused, and soon disappeared in the folds of white vapour shrouding the middle of the river.
    Almayer had approached his daughter, and leaning with both arms over the rail, was looking moodily down on the heap of rubbish and broken bottles at the foot of the verandah.
    “What was all that noise just now?” he growled peevishly, without looking up.  “Confound you and your mother!  What did she want?  What did you come out for?”
    “She did not want to let me come out,” said Nina.  “She is angry.  She says the man just gone is some Rajah.  I think she is right now.”
    “I believe all you women are crazy,” snarled Almayer.  “What’s that to you, to her, to anybody?  The man wants to collect trepang and birds’ nests on the islands.  He told me so, that Rajah of yours.  He will come to-morrow.  I want you both to keep away from the house, and let me attend to my business in peace.”
    Dain Maroola came the next day and had a long conversation with Almayer.  This was the beginning of a close and friendly intercourse which, at first, was much remarked in Sambir, till the population got used to the frequent sight of many fires burning in Almayer’s campong, where Maroola’s men were warming themselves during the cold nights of the north-east monsoon, while their master had long conferences with the Tuan Putih — as they styled Almayer amongst themselves.  Great was the curiosity in Sambir on the subject of the new trader.  Had he seen the Sultan?  What did the Sultan say?  Had he given any presents?  What would he sell?  What would he buy?  Those were the questions broached eagerly by the inhabitants of bamboo houses built over the river.  Even in more substantial buildings, in Abdulla’s house, in the residences of principal traders, Arab, Chinese, and Bugis, the excitement ran high, and lasted many days.  With inborn suspicion they would not believe the simple account of himself the young trader was always ready to give.  Yet it had all the appearance of truth.  He said he was a trader, and sold rice.  He did not want to buy gutta-percha or beeswax, because he intended to employ his numerous crew in collecting trepang on the coral reefs outside the river, and also in seeking for bird’s nests on the mainland.  Those two articles he professed himself ready to buy if there were any to be obtained in that way.  He said he was from Bali, and a Brahmin, which last statement he made good by refusing all food during his often repeated visits to Lakamba’s and Almayer’s houses.  To Lakamba he went generally at night and had long audiences.  Babalatchi, who was always a third party at those meetings of potentate and trader, knew how to resist all attempts on the part of the curious to ascertain the subject of so many long talks.  When questioned with languid courtesy by the grave Abdulla he sought refuge in a vacant stare of his one eye, and in the affectation of extreme simplicity.
    “I am only my master’s slave,” murmured Babalatchi, in a hesitating manner.  Then as if making up his mind suddenly for a reckless confidence he would inform Abdulla of some transaction in rice, repeating the words, “A hundred