Joe Sandilands was hardly listening. ‘I could have been sailing down the Hooghly River by now! Why the hell didn’t I go last night?’

The Governor resumed, ‘I don’t suppose this is what you wanted for a moment but if you’ll take this on it couldn’t do your career any harm, I think. As I say, there are some very good fellows down there – Bateman’s Horse. We call them the Bengal Greys – grey horses – the Indian equivalent of the Scots Greys, don’t you know… But I won’t waste any more time chatting.’

He held up a letter by its corner. ‘It’s all here but there’s somebody I would like you to meet.’ He seemed for a moment reluctant to come to the point, finally concluding, ‘It’s my niece, you see. She’s about the place somewhere… Her husband is the Collector of Panikhat and they’re stationed down there. Between you and me – and strictly between you and me – he’s a peaceful sort of chap… anything for a quiet life. Not much go about him. Perhaps Nancy ’s only taken this up because she was bored. But, I don’t know – they seem happy enough together. Anyway, Nancy ’s as bright as a new rupee and – ah! Nancy, my dear, there you are! This is Commander Sandilands. Sandilands, my niece, Nancy Drummond.’

For the first time since this terrible news broke for Joe, he woke to the possibility that there might be compensations in this so unwelcome interruption to his life. Mention of the Collector’s wife had instantly produced a vision of Anglo-Indian respectability at its most oppressive but the figure before him was quite a surprise.