During his master’s absence at Sourabaya, Wang had busied himself with the ground immediately in front of the principal bungalow¹. Emerging from the fringe of grass growing across the shore end of the coal-jetty, Heyst beheld² a broad, clear space, black and level, with only one or two clumps³ of charred⁴ twigs⁵, where the flame had swept from the front of his house to the nearest trees of the forest.

“You took the risk of firing the grass?” Heyst asked.

Wang nodded. Hanging on the arm of the white man before whom he stood was the girl called Alma; but neither from the Chinaman’s eyes nor from his expression could anyone have guessed that he was in the slightest degree aware of the fact.

“He has been tidying the place in his labour-saving way,” explained Heyst, without looking at the girl, whose hand rested on his forearm. “He’s the whole establishment, you see. I told you I hadn’t even a dog to keep me company here.”

Wang had marched off towards the wharf⁶.

“He’s like those waiters in that place,” she said. That place was Schomberg’s hotel.

“One Chinaman looks very much like another,” Heyst remarked. “We shall find it useful to have him here. This is the house.”

They faced, at some distance, the six shallow steps leading up to the veranda⁷. The girl had abandoned Heyst’s arm.

“This is the house,” he repeated.

She did not offer to budge⁸ away from his side, but stood staring fixedly⁹ at the steps, as if they had been something unique and impracticable. He waited a little, but she did not move.

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