"Would you care to go over the factory? I am expecting a party this afternoon, and Tom has promised to show them round the works. Manora people are sick of them, but it will be a novelty to you.
"E. L."
Verona accepted the invitation with pleasure, and when she arrived at the big bungalow there found assembled Major Gale, Major and Mrs. Barwell, Mr. Salwey and various strangers from Rajahpore. Mr. Lepell personally conducted the party round the yards; here he pointed out the great carts, laden with sugar-cane, just brought in by buffaloes.
"Now, here you see it at the start," he said. "Later on, you shall see it in the sugar bowl."
Guided by him the visitors explored the entire factory—saw the mills grinding the cane, saw the black sugar in liquid form, the refining processes, the furnaces; last of all, the loaf sugar in blue paper caps, ready for departure. Then they inspected the distillery, and the gigantic casks of rum—intended for the use of the army. Mr. Lepell was an enthusiast, and harangued his guests eloquently—"Sugar" was his text—then he gave them a long object-lesson in machinery; finally, they climbed up a winding, spiral staircase, and stood on the flat roof of the factory, and surveyed the whole country—a dead level, with nothing to break the monotony but an occasional village or mango tope.
"Oh, what a sea of cultivation and crops!" exclaimed Verona.
"Yes," assented Mr. Lepell; "India is agriculture, agriculture is India. All around you see the cane; it is a good year. The chief industry here, of course, is sugar. There are scores of private mills."
"What are they like?" some one asked.
"Oh, primitive affairs—a rude wheel, an ox driven round and round to crush the cane; then there is a hole in the floor, and a furnace to boil the stuff into goor, or treacle."
"I suppose the people are very well off," said Verona, turning to Mr. Salwey.