I permitted the servant to clear my plate and take the tray, turning down his offer of more wine, a third ice, a sliver of chocolate . . . , and stretched out my legs into the sun, deliberately putting dark thoughts from my mind. From where I sat I could see elephants on the other side of the water, languidly reaching for leaves. Closer to, half a dozen peahens pecked their way along the base of some shrubs, oblivious to the full display of their ever-hopeful male. After a couple of minutes, they were startled by the cry of a parrot, and the colourful feathers folded away as the flock slipped into the bushes.

The noisy parrot was not a wild creature, but harbinger of our luncheon amusement. I personally would have been happy to sit and watch Nature’s entertainments, but the great enemy, Boredom, was to be given no chance of a toehold in this place. Three young men trotted up with brilliant green parrots on their shoulders, and proceeded to put on a show. The birds rode miniature bicycles across diminutive tight-ropes, loaded and shot Lilliputian cannon, counted out the answers to elementary mathematical problems by dipping their heads, and in conclusion lay flat on their feathered bellies in salute to the maharaja. The parrot-trainers were followed by a troupe of gymnasts and contortionists, children who tied themselves into knots and threw one another into the air. The third act, a voluptuous young woman who played tunes on a sea of water-filled crystal goblets, lacked the ability to sustain interest, and the warm afternoon combined with the wine made us an inattentive audience. She left after a third tune, and a gramophone was brought out and wound. Sunny gave a little sigh of happiness, and her brother stirred and sat up.

“So, Jimmy,” Goodheart called. “Who took the morning’s first blood?”

“Miss Russell did, although she permitted me to finish the beast off.”

A startled silence fell, before Sunny squealed and clapped her hands. “Oh, Mary, how super! Have you ever done this before?”

“We don’t have all that many wild boar in southern England,” I pointed out. “I shouldn’t think the domesticated variety make for quite the same challenge.”

“You ought to introduce them,” Goodheart suggested. “Get into training for a world cup of pig sticking.”

The man had been making a joke, but the maharaja’s voice cut in, an edge to his words that overrode all conversation. “The British do not need to train for sticking pig. They simply arrange the rules to their satisfaction.”

The green field and its tent and rugs froze into an awkward silence, until our host shrugged to indicate that he had only been making a joke, and then rose to consult with the shikaris gathered on the far side of the tent. Mrs Goodheart made some kind of enquiring sound at her son.