if you are short now." And the skipper, throwing away his cigar, walked
off to "wake them up on board," as he expressed it.

Almayer vainly expected to hear of the cause of his daughter's return
from his daughter's lips. Not that day, not on any other day did she
ever allude to her Singapore life. He did not care to ask, awed by the
calm impassiveness of her face, by those solemn eyes looking past him on
the great, still forests sleeping in majestic repose to the murmur of the
broad river. He accepted the situation, happy in the gentle and
protecting affection the girl showed him, fitfully enough, for she had,
as she called it, her bad days when she used to visit her mother and
remain long hours in the riverside hut, coming out as inscrutable as
ever, but with a contemptuous look and a short word ready to answer any
of his speeches. He got used even to that, and on those days kept quiet,
although greatly alarmed by his wife's influence upon the girl. Otherwise
Nina adapted herself wonderfully to the circumstances of a half-savage
and miserable life. She accepted without question or apparent disgust
the neglect, the decay, the poverty of the household, the absence of
furniture, and the preponderance of rice diet on the family table. She
lived with Almayer in the little house (now sadly decaying) built
originally by Lingard for the young couple. The Malays eagerly discussed
her arrival. There were at the beginning crowded levees of Malay women
with their children, seeking eagerly after "Ubat" for all the ills of the
flesh from the young Mem Putih. In the cool of the evening grave Arabs
in long white shirts and yellow sleeveless jackets walked slowly on the
dusty path by the riverside towards Almayer's gate, and made solemn calls
upon that Unbeliever under shallow pretences of business, only to get a
glimpse of the young girl in a highly decorous manner. Even Lakamba came
out of his stockade in a great pomp of war canoes and red umbrellas, and
landed on the rotten little jetty of Lingard and Co. He came, he said,