But her children had discovered chewing gum and their teeth had suffered greatly, and whilst Quinn wilted in the heat, it was back to the Washington dentist. Apparently dentistry in Jaipur was backward as indeed the whole town was, greatly provincial, historic even.

Pavna hoped the baby would not start teething whilst Quinn was out here.

When Quinn felt sure they had exhausted the Washington dentist, she asked if she could have a drink, for the incense in the garden was making her throat dry.

‘A gin?’

‘Water, please. No ice.’

But Pavna was disappointed.

She thought the new woman, despite her words was too polite, her voice flat and not a murmur in it, and then remembered that she was only half American after all and that the British always took ages to warm up. There was something menacing about being half and half, about the merging of two different worlds, which no Rajput could countenance. And she clearly had no husband.

In Jaipur a woman was supposed to see her husband as an incarnation of God.

But there was something else as well, something deeper - to do with Pavna’s own will and satisfaction - had she been expecting more of a daughter?

These days everything seemed more complicated and less glamorous than thirty years ago, things had less value, life itself perhaps. She had expected a daughter, someone more embracing, more depending even.

Pavna rallied herself. ‘Well if you would like to see your rooms now, we have arranged everything so nicely. There is a European toilet and microwave. Manju will take you up.’

‘But Mamma…’ Manju had been standing in the shadows quietly watching everything play out. She was younger than Quinn, wrapped in a soft paisley sari with a figure like a mango, and sparkling with jewelry like a Faberge egg. It was the first time Quinn had noticed her and she looked with interest.

‘The ayah, Mamma.’