The new entrepreneurs flourished during the period of British colonial rule. ‘After 1845, Ceylon was favoured with a succession of enlightened Governors … Among them Ward, Robinson, Gregory, Gordon, Ridgeway ….’ Arrack renters, those engaged in trade and commerce, the philanthropists, the native patriots loyal to king and crown, albeit an alien king and crown, built their magnificent homes, opened up their vast plantations and embarked on an unlimited entrepreneurship. His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, on a visit to the Crown Colony, was entertained to a magnificent banquet—to eat off the gold plate that had been specially made for the occasion. The Midas touch—gold plate, cutlery of gold, a glittering array of dishes, a galaxy of jewel-bedecked women … no one else was prepared to host the Prince but this one man, the Native Patriot. A century later an austere great grandson preached the sermon on the Living Bread.

‘Except ye eat the flesh of the Son of Man, and drink His Blood, ye have no life in you.’

The walls of Serena’s family home are covered with photographs and paintings in oils and water colours. The faces of the past in all their youth and fullness impinge on the weary and ageing faces of the present.

‘Look,’ says Serena, ‘my grandfather and his family. My father’s family.’ She points at a young boy who looks out of the sepia tint into a brief future. A bright head with dark eyes, sword-thrust eyes look piercingly out of the fading print. ‘That was a tragedy; a tragic family. One night my grandfather took that son of his out on a moonlight drive in his racing carriage. They were living in Galle where he was a doctor …’

The carriage had raced along as if it were racing to reach the heart of the moon. The horses were swift.

‘The son slipped from his seat—it was one of those very small, light carriages. The buckle of his shoe got caught in a wheel. His father did not notice.’

The horses sped into the night. An appointment with death itself. He lifted his whip and spurred on the horses, lightly drawing in their reins. The horses frothed and tossed their manes. They flew into the heart of that white radiance, that desired consummation with Diana, huntress chaste and fair—‘the lunar virgin: Dione, Diana, Nemorensis, goddess of the moon grove.’

‘That his son had fallen off the carriage he did not know,’ says Serena.

Too late. Too late, that discovery.

‘When he came home all hell broke loose. The mother had a nervous breakdown.’

And who picked up that limp body after that tragic moon-journey to death? Who were those unfortunate searchers sent out to find that body and bring it back to the house to be readied for burial? Who wept over that body? Mourned for a lost son? A grief-stricken father, guilt-ridden? A mother inconsolable in her sorrow? But the tragedy did not end there.