"And you don't care, I suppose," she interrupted.
He stared at her, puzzled; why this unprovoked attack? "We shall get them back. Perhaps you don't realise the reason——"
Again she broke in: "It's because you officials inspire no trust!"
What on earth was the matter with the girl—was she a lunatic?
"I'm afraid superstition is more to blame," he told her patiently. "Some mischief-maker among them has probably started the report that they are all to be murdered in order to extract oil from their bodies for medicinal purposes."
"What nonsense!"
He wondered if she meant the report, or his explanation.
"Of course it's nonsense. But that kind of thing will happen, even nowadays. Superstition dies hard in India. Coolies often bolt wholesale when some important work has to be started, because in old times, before our occupation of the country, a human victim was nearly always buried beneath the foundations of any big building as a sop to the gods!"
He could see she did not believe him. His anger rose. "How long have you been out here?" he inquired.
"Quite long enough to discover how little the people are considered. I think the Government ought to be hanged. Not a penny will you spend—on this famine, for example—without exacting the uttermost farthing in return. You make these wretched creatures work for a mere pittance, you force them into poor-houses when you know it lowers their self-respect, and many of them die because they would rather die than accept relief in the way you administer it!" She paused, breathless.