Free The House of Seven Fountains by Anne Weale

thought right.”
    The conversation was interrupted by the return of Chen with another cup and a second dish of pineapple. Vivien smiled her thanks.
    “ I don’t think he likes me, ” she said worriedly, when he had gone.
    “He doesn’t know you yet,” Dr. Stransom said. “Hello. Here comes old Seng. He hasn’t wasted much time.”
    Following his glance, she saw that an old Chinese man was peeping furtively out of the shrubbery. After a quick reconnaissance he emerged into the open, a suitcase in one hand a large cloth bundle in the other.
    “Seng is a barang man—a traveling salesman,” the doctor explained in answer to her questioning look. “He comes around once a month and I suppose he got wind of your arrival and put you at the top of his list. Shall I get rid of him?”
    “Oh, no, please, I’d like to see what he has for sale. Why was he so cautious about coming out of the bushes?”
    “Because he’s an old robber and Chen would have sent him packing. Don’t blame me if he fleeces you.”
    Some feet away from them the man deposited his baggage on the grass and came forward bowing obsequiously, his broad grin displaying a prominent set of gold rimmed teeth.
    “Morning, missy. Morning, tuan . You like to see very nice tablecloths, ivory, porcelain, ladies’ underwear—yes? All very cheap, very good stuff.”
    “Yes, please,” Vivien said, disregarding the doctor’s look of cynical amusement.
    With a beam of satisfaction Seng fetched his baggage and opened it out at her feet. Inside the bundle were piles of cutwork table linen, vivid silk pajamas, nylon blouses and hand embroidered handkerchiefs. The suitcase contained a selection of lacquer boxes, ivory figurines, Siamese silver trinkets and delicately colored china ornaments.
    Seng was an expert salesman, and he knew that English mems were easily tempted into buying more than they could afford. Since this missy with the yellow hair was related to the late Tuan Cunningham, she must be very rich and would not quibble if he raised his prices by a few dollars. With a wary eye on the doctor, he extolled the fine quality of his wares.
    “You like these? American nylon. Very smart. Very pretty, eh? He held up a pair of diaphanous lace-trimmed panties.
    Vivien shook her head and tried not to blush.
    “How much is this?” she asked, hastily indicating a tray cloth with an intricate border of drawn threads.
    “Only five dollars. Made in Hong Kong. Very fine work.”
    “Don’t give him more than two dollars,” Stransom said, and Vivien hid a smile at the angry expression on Seng’s face.
    “Four dollars,” he protested in an aggrieved tone. “This cloth very fine. I make special price for little missy.”
    “Do you want it?” the doctor asked her.
    Vivien nodded.
    “Two dollars and fifty cents,” he said to Seng.
    “Three dollars, tuan .”
    “Two dollars seventy-five cents or you’ve lost your sale,” Dr. Stransom said in a final tone.
    “Okay, can do,” Seng agreed, looking very disgruntled.
    Putting the cloth aside, he drew a tissue-wrapped parcel from the bottom of the bundle and unwrapped it with an exaggerated display of care.
    At the sight of the stiff silk jacket that he held up for her inspection, Vivien gave a gasp of delight. The silk was a subtle shade of green, exquisitely embroidered with birds and flowers. It had a narrow mandarin collar and was fastened down the front with silk frogging.
    “May I try it on?” she asked.
    “Sure, sure,” Seng nodded vigorously.
    Vivien slipped her arms into the wide sleeves and touched the beautiful embroidery with reverent fingers. It was a coat fit for a Manchu princess, and the birds and blossoms were like fairytale things in their fanciful design and delicate coloring.
    “How much is it?” she asked.
    Seng went into a eulogy on the merits of the coat before finally informing her that it would cost fifty dollars.
    “How much is that in English money? ” she asked the