Tiaré,when I told her this story,praised my prudence,and for a few minutes we worked in silence,for we were shelling peas.Then her eyes,always alert for the affairs of her kitchen,fell on some action of the Chinese cook which aroused her violent disapproval.She turned on him with a torrent of abuse.The Chink was not backward to defend himself,and a very lively quarrel ensued.They spoke in the native language,of which I had learnt but half a dozen words,and it sounded as though the world would shortly come to an end;but presently peace was restored and Tiaré gave the cook a cigarette.They both smoked comfortably.

　　‘Do you know,it was I who found him his wife?’said Tiaré suddenly,with a smile spread all over her immense face.

　　‘The cook?’

　　‘No,Strickland.’

　　‘But he had one already.’

　　‘That is what he said,but I told him she was in England,and England is at the other end of the world.’

　　‘True’,I replied.

　　‘He would come to Papeete every two or three months,when he wanted paints or tobacco or money,and then he would wander ......