Lust was extremely attractive. She was also tiny, and the extra leg-room was wasted on her, but Stephen did not grudge this. If the seat must be occupied, let it be by such an apparition. She settled herself in, clearly a practised last-minute traveller, without fuss, with a comfortable little rustling and patting of pillow and blanket. She seemed to have no baggage: perhaps the attentive steward had disposed of it in some privileged secret store? Stephen observed her covertly, as Captain Parodi swooped upwards to the skies. Of her legs he had a good view, for her tight emerald skirt rode high above her knees, and her ankles were extended, neatly crossed. Her little green lizard-skin high-heeled shoes were impractical fetishes. Her feet made Stephen’s feet look enormous. Her hands were neatly folded in her lap, and she wore large rings with flashing stones. In her lap reposed an absurdly small, soft, kingfisher-blue bag with a golden clasp and a golden chain. Her breasts were high and showy under a trim white silk shirt. She wore a lavish quantity of cosmetics upon her brown and flawless skin. She twinkled and jittered with light, although she sat so still. Fire leapt from her emeralds and her diamonds. She smelt of musk. She was infinitely composed.

Champagne was served, and Stephen and petite Lust each accepted one glass, then another. She seemed to be well known to the steward. They journeyed eastwards.

Caviare was served, in small glass pots. Black aphrodisiac. Petite Lust from time to time examined her even white teeth in her pocket mirror to make sure that no unsightly soft damp dark sea eggs adhered. Into the back of her gold powder-case a goldsmith had hammered a black enamel orchid. She drank half a bottle of white wine with her meal, and then calmly embarked, with her cheese, on half a bottle of red. Stephen stared in admiration. How could so much liquid accommodate itself so gracefully in so small a frame? She did not flush or fumble. She remained calm, cool, brown, self-possessed.

Over coffee, she announced to Stephen that her name was Miss Porntip, and that she lived in Bangkok and was Beauty Queen of Asia.

During the in-flight movie they exchanged further information. As gangsters and drug-dealers on the small silent screen raced and tumbled and cheated and sweated and fell over cliffs in fast cars, Stephen Cox and Miss Porntip told one another little stories about their lives. He admitted to being a writer and an adventurer. She claimed to be a woman with many assets as well as her beauty. They spoke of Thailand, Indonesia, the Pacific Basin, the New World. Miss Porntip was derisive about Vietnam and China and Kampuchea. ‘This plane,’ she said, ‘it fly on to Ho Chi Minh Ville. Is ruined, Ho Chi Minh Ville. Was fine city. Saigon was fine city. Cafe Continental, Rue Catinat. Dancing. Thés dansants. Is all ruined now.’