Up in my rooms, I was faced with a problem. Evening wear generally exposes a fair bit of the arms and shoulders, and I did not think I had face-powder enough to conceal my dramatic bruises. However, fortune and Geoffrey Nesbit’s Simla tailor had provided me with an alternative to evening dress. I tied the trouser cord around my waist and slid the cool silk kameez over my head, draping the gauzy dupatta loosely across my shoulders and hair. I looked approvingly at my reflection, then noticed the silver charm, a discordant note in the elegance. I dropped it under the garment’s high neck, then after a moment’s thought, I fetched the amber necklace from my jewellery box and fastened it around my neck.

I studied my reflection in the heavy cheval-glass: much better. Bruises decently covered, exotically festive, and I couldn’t help it if I looked like a candidate for the maharaja’s harem. Perhaps I should paint a vermilion mark on my forehead, to remind everyone that I was already married. I laughed to myself at the fancy, and let the shawl fall away from my hair to rest on my shoulders.

To my surprise, the maharaja claimed me as his dinner companion, so that I was seated at his right hand. A second surprise came with the meal itself, which for the first time was of strictly Oriental fare, and almost Spartan by comparison with that of the previous night. Mutton pilau (without an eyeball in view) and brinjal curry, tangy curds, spoonfuls of hot red, cool green, and sweet-and-sour brown relishes, and many unidentifiable small dishes offered all the contrasts of salty and sweet, soft and crisp, and even cold with a tangy sweet-sour frozen sherbet, with piles of buttery stuffed paratha bread to chew on. A few of the guests ate with their fingers, most with fork and knife, and the general atmosphere was one of calm satisfaction.

During the meal, our host offered genial conversation. The cheetah coursing had gone well, the injured beater would recover (I thought the maharaja had made enquiries especially for me), and a bag of six pigs made for a decent morning’s work. Particularly our last, which he said was the biggest he’d seen that year, thirty-five inches at the shoulder and nearly two hundred fifty pounds.

“Good heavens,” I said. “No wonder I’m sore.”

“I shall send my masseuse,” he said. “I ought to have done so immediately, how thoughtless of me.”

“Oh no, a hot bath set it aright,” I assured him, and hastened to insert some general question about his zoo, which he was happy to answer, and we were off.