"Then in that case," said Travers, halting for a moment, and confronting his companion, "I am delighted to meet his son; although I lost sight of him for ages and ages, I remember your father just as well as if we had met but yesterday; such an active, cheery sort of chap, with a wonderful influence, and personality. I know he went into the Army, and died young."
"Yes, twenty-five years ago out here—cholera. I don't remember him at all—I wish I could."
"Once he came and spent a few days at Lambourne, my father's place, and I felt tremendously flattered, and proud. Everyone was taken with him, and such a cricketer! Those were the pleasant days before our grand smash. Are you an only child?"
"I am."
"What hard lines for your mother to have six thousand miles between you and her! I know what that means."
Mayne made no reply. He had good reason to believe, that distance was of no account, and his absence, more or less of a welcome relief.
"Yes, I know exactly how she feels," repeated good, simple-minded Travers; "when my little girl went away from me to England,—the whole world seemed changed, and dark."
His love of Nancy was the keynote of the man.
"Well, here is what we call a factory—not much like your idea of one, I'll swear,—and a bit of an eyesore into the bargain."
The factory was an ugly, solid brick building, with a flat zinc roof, and vast verandahs; in and out of which, the laden coolies swarmed like ants in an ant-heap. All seemed working at the highest pitch, and everything pointed to a big crop; here Travers was the acute, energetic and authoritative Manager; eyes and ears, hung upon his words, which happened to be in fluent Canarese.