“Baboe. . . . Is there a window open?”
The baboe ran about stupidly, unfamiliar as yet with Dutch doors and windows.
In a sitting-room, they found Frances, Otto’s wife, with the two children.
“But, Frances, you’ve got a window open!”
“Oh, Grandmamma, I was suffocating!”
“Baboe, shut the window at once! Frances, how could you!”
“I can’t, kandjeng!” sighed the baboe, pressing with the strength of a gnat on the bars of the solid Dutch window.
Constance helped her, pushed down the window.
“This is Aunt Constance, who has come to make your acquaintance, Frances. But Frances, you’re still in your sarong and kabaai!”[1]
“Isn’t that allowed, Granny? How d’ye do, Aunt?”
“Child, how Indian you’ve become in these few years!” cried the old lady, angrier than Constance remembered ever seeing her. “How is it possible, how is it possible! Have you forgotten Holland? In March, with the window open, in a tearing draught, with both the children, you in sarong and kabaai and Huig in a little shirt! Do you want to kill yourself and the children? Baboe, put a baadje on sinjo![2] Frances, Frances, I spent years and years in India, but even in India I was nearly always
