"What do you say?"
I repeated my assertion.
"How? What is the meaning of marmalade then? Is it not jam made from the bael fruit?"
"Of course, not."
"Do you expect me to believe that? In boyhood we learned that the meaning of marmalade was, as I say, jam made from the bael fruit."
"The master taught you wrong."
"But of what fruit is it the jam then if not of the bael?"
"If you call it jam, it is the jam of the orange."
At these words, Madan Babu was astounded. In accents of fear, he repeated—"Jam of the orange?"
"What is the meaning of this?"—I thought; aloud, I said—"To be sure, the jam of the orange."
"If it were of the orange it would be entirely sweet. Why is there a bitter taste mixed with the sweet then?"
"It is not made from our ordinary oranges. There is an orange growing at Seville, in Spain, that looks like this, but has a bitter flavour. The marmalade is made from this kind."
The expression of fear in Madan Babu's face gave place to one of disgust. He said—"Are you certain of what you say?" His voice was a little hoarse.
