have eaten they again wash their hands, rinse out their mouths, and
don their gayest apparel.

The gentlemen in the bungalow now get word that the evening's
festivities are about to commence. Lighting our cigars, we sally out
to the _shamiana_ which has been erected on the ridge, surrounding the
deep tank which supplies the factory during the manufacturing season
with water. The _shamiana_ is a large canopy or wall-less tent. It is
festooned with flowers and green plantain trees, and evergreens have
been planted all round it. Flaring flambeaux, torches, Chinese
lanterns, and oil lamps flicker and glare, and make the interior
almost as bright as day. When we arrive we find our chairs drawn up in
state, one raised seat in the centre being the place of honour, and
reserved for the manager of the factory.

When we are seated, the _malee_ or gardener advances with a wooden
tray filled with sand, in which are stuck heads of all the finest
flowers the garden can afford, placed in the most symmetrical
patterns, and really a pretty tasteful piece of workmanship. Two or
three old Brahmins, principal among whom is 'Hureehar Jha,' a wicked
old scoundrel, now advance, bearing gay garlands of flowers, muttering
a strange gibberish in Sanskrit, supposed to be a blessing, but which
might be a curse for all we understood of it, and decking our wrists
and necks with these strings of flowers. For this service they get a
small gratuity. The factory omlah headed by the dignified, portly
_gornasta_ or confidential adviser, dressed in snowy turbans and
spotless white, now come forward. A large brass tray stands on the
table in front of you. They each present a _salamee_ or _nuzzur_, that
is, a tribute or present, which you touch, and it is then deposited
with a rattling jingle on the brass plate. The head men of villages,