Hoity-Toity examines a bush of thorny caparis in flower. She looks across the ridge and is entranced. On one side is the vast Romanesque amphitheatre with large steps going down to the pool. A man is washing himself on a slab of stone. A safe distance from him a couple of moorhens are bobbing up and down. Swallows skim over the water in unending circles. On the other side is a densely wooded valley of flame trees and wild date-palm. She clasps her hands beneath her chin in adolescent wonder: ‘So that’s the flame of the forest! How perfectly beautiful! Where is the Sun temple?’ she asks.

I point to the flights of steps on the other side of the amphitheatre. I lead her down the large steps to the pool. Then up the same steps to the ruins of the Sun temple. I show her some of the surrounding countryside: massive boulders with flame and acacia sprouting from the sides.

‘I have had enough for the morning. I am hot and hungry,’ I plead. ‘Aren’t you?’

She glances at her wrist-watch. ‘Okay! My watch says time for another gin-tonic and a bite.’

We return to the rest-house. I mix more gins and tonics and lay a plateful of tandoori chicken and Russian salad on the table. I help myself to a bottle of chilled lager and some kababs. She gobbles up her lunch and brusquely orders me out of the room. ‘I must have my siesta. Wake me up at 4.30. We can do your dam and fortified village in the evening.’ She does not care to find out whether there is another room or even a chair for me, just puts me out on the verandah and shuts the door. ‘Shake me up; I sleep heavily.’

I scrounge a chair from the kitchen, put my feet up against a column and make myself comfortable. I watch the picnickers dozing under the trees. My head is heavy with sleep. I close my eyes. I am roused by the snake charmers’ pipes. The picnickers are packing up while the snakewallas make a last attempt to extract something from them. I doze. I hear charabancs, cars, scooters leave. The snake charmers’ pipes fade away in the distance. Only pye-dogs snap and snarl over garbage left by the picnickers. I daydream. Hoity-Toity is trying to seduce me. I am not very difficult to seduce. I have no conscience about Bhagmati. Bhagmati is a whore; why should I feel guilty about her? I am taking Hoity-Toity when Bhagmati turns up and asks, ‘Couldn’t you find anyone better than this old memsahib?’ It would be nicer if Hoity-Toity was younger and her mouth did not smell of gin-tonics, roasted tobacco and old age!