till before
the entranced Almayer--the great thing would be the gold hunt up the
river. He--Lingard--would devote himself to it. He had been in the
interior before. There were immense deposits of alluvial gold there.
Fabulous. He felt sure. Had seen places. Dangerous work? Of course! But
what a reward! He would explore--and find. Not a shadow of doubt. Hang
the danger! They would first get as much as they could for themselves.
Keep the thing quiet. Then after a time form a Company. In Batavia or
in England. Yes, in England. Much better. Splendid! Why, of course. And
that baby would be the richest woman in the world. He--Lingard--would
not, perhaps, see it--although he felt good for many years yet--but
Almayer would. Here was something to live for yet! Hey?

But the richest woman in the world had been for the last five minutes
shouting shrilly--"Rajah Laut! Rajah Laut! Hai! Give ear!" while the old
seaman had been speaking louder, unconsciously, to make his deep bass
heard above the impatient clamour. He stopped now and said tenderly--

"What is it, little woman?"

"I am not a little woman. I am a white child. Anak Putih. A white child;
and the white men are my brothers. Father says so. And Ali says so too.
Ali knows as much as father. Everything."

Almayer almost danced with paternal delight.

"I taught her. I taught her," he repeated, laughing with tears in his
eyes. "Isn't she sharp?"

"I am the slave of the white child," said Lingard, with playful
solemnity. "What is the order?"

"I want a house," she warbled, with great eagerness. "I want a house,
and another house on the roof, and another on the roof--high. High!
Like the places where they dwell--my brothers--in the land where the sun
sleeps."

"To the westward," explained Almayer, under his breath. "She remembers
everything. She wants you to build a house of cards. You did, last time
you were here."

Lingard sat down with the child on his knees, and Almayer pulled out
violently one drawer after another, looking for the cards, as if the
fate of the world depended upon his haste. He produced a dirty double
pack which was only used during Lingard's visit to Sambir, when he would
sometimes play--of an evening--with Almayer, a game which he called
Chinese bezique. It bored Almayer, but the old seaman delighted in it,
considering it a remarkable product of Chinese genius--a race for which
he had an unaccountable liking and admiration.

"Now we will get on,