‘Hexhibition!’ she screamed. ‘Hexhibition!’

Collis, disconcerted, took a pace backwards, but Maria-Mamuska took another step nearer.

‘Who cares about hexhibition! You want a hexhibition? You want one? Well, here’s hexhibition!’

With her face stiff with anger, and her cheroot stuck firmly between her walnut-coloured teeth, Maria-Mamuska planted herself directly in front of Collis, seized the top of her blouse with both hands, and tugged it right down, baring a stunning expanse of womanly anatomy. ‘Here!’ she said. ‘Is this what you mean? Is this what you mean when you say hexhibition?’

‘Oh, God,’ sighed Collis. He didn’t know what else to say. He was frustrated, certainly, but this kind of one-woman circus was the last thing he wanted. He raised his eyes tiredly away from Maria-Mamuska’s uninvited ‘hexhibition’ and, as he did so, found himself turning his head towards the cabins, as if something else were ineluctably drawing his attention. He heard bells jangle on the Virginia’s bridge, and he paused for a moment, but then his gaze travelled further, along the black-and-green-painted superstructure, further, past the bleached ropes and the lifeboats, along the rows of tarnished portholes, until it reached the third porthole of the women’s quarters. There, framed in a circle of studded brass, like a horrified portrait on a drawing-room wall, was Hannah West’s face, white, her eyes wide and her mouth so far open that she looked as if she had choked on a very dry piece of seedcake.

Almost simultaneously, as if by a prearranged signal, Hannah’s drapes flew shut, and Collis clamped his hands over his eyes. He couldn’t believe it. Of all the damned stupid despicable luck. He might have been able to save the situation with Hannah if he had met her in a gentlemanly fashion at breakfast, and buttered her muffins for her, and warmed her frostiness with his usual flattery. He could have assured her that it was lonesomeness, not lust, that had led him to tap on her cabin door, seeking comfort. He could have begged her forgiveness for his foolish behaviour, and bought her perfume in Panama to make up for it. Instead, what had happened? She had spied on him, the silly woman, and caught him standing on the deck at dawn in nothing but his nightshirt, apparently enjoying a one-man display of the largest and least respectable bosom on the entire boat.

‘You may dress now,’ he said to Maria-Mamuska, in a small, restrained voice.

He waited for what he considered to be a respectable time and then uncovered his eyes. She was still standing there bare-breasted, staring at him with that fierce look of hers, and the dawn breeze made her nipples as stiff as charcoals. It made her eyes water, too, although Collis wasn’t certain if she was crying or not.

He took hold of her Pueblo blanket and gently covered her with it. She stood where she was, not moving, although she lowered her head slightly, and some of the tension and anger seemed to filter out of her.