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thought she might have married him instead of Aloysius. Now she wanted to go to this man, to ask him if the British would really leave. Would there be an independent government at last? And did he think there would be civil war? But the price for such information was too high. The British, she decided, were best at arm’s length. For suddenly Grace wasbeginning to understand, painfully and with fear, just what might happen to her beloved country. Propelled by this late last love, she had wandered towards frontiers not normally reached by women of her class. She was walking a dangerous road. A secret door in her life had swung open. It could not now be easily closed.
    ‘Sweep the devils out, men,’ Aloysius said, handing his empty glass to the servant who had walked in, ‘and who knows what others will come in. The Sinhalese won’t stay marginalised forever.’
    Alicia had stopped her practice; the metronome was no longer ticking.
    ‘I’m going to have a shower,’ Aloysius said, shaking his head. ‘Too much foreign rule is bound to tamper with the balance of this place.’ And he went out, bumping into Thornton who had just come in.
    ‘Ah! The wanderer returns!’ Grace heard him say.
    Thornton de Silva was seventeen. In the years since they had left their old upcountry home, he had grown tall and very handsome while his smile remained incontestably beautiful. Colombo suited him. He loved its bustle and energy around him. He loved the noise. The British talked of a Japanese invasion, the navy was on constant alert, and the newspapers were full of depressing predictions. But what did Thornton care? Youth held unimaginable promise. Possibilities festooned his days like strings of coloured lights. Earlier this afternoon he had gone to meet his brother Jacob. The harbour had been a tangle of sounds; muffled horns, and shrill whistles, and waves that washed against the jetty. The air was an invisible ocean, salt-fresh and wet, with a breeze that seemed to throb in time to the sound of motor launches. Further along, in the entry-strictly-prohibited partsof the harbour, brass-buttoned British officers revved their jeeps, while stick-thin boys stepped out of rickshaws carrying native food for important personnel, balancing tiffin tins precariously on their heads. Thornton had brought Jacob his lunch. He had been wheeling his bicycle along the seafront watching the frenzy of activity when he had bumped into two English girls, one of whom he vaguely knew. She had called out to him and Thornton had smiled, a beacon of a smile, a searchlight of happiness, making the girl giggle. She was drinking a bright green limeade through a candy-striped straw. Thornton watched her lips wrap themselves around the straw. Then, regretfully, remembering that his brother was waiting for him, he had waved and moved on. But Jacob, when he met him, had been full of his usual gloom. Thornton sighed, only half listening.
    ‘Crown Rule,’ Jacob declared loftily, following some thread of his own, ‘my boss says it’s a privilege the Indian Empire doesn’t have. Which is why they are in such a mess!’
    Thornton had not the faintest idea what his brother was talking about. The girl with the candy-striped straw filled his head.
    ‘Crown Rule is what keeps the elephants in the jungle and stops them trampling all over the parks.’
    Jacob paused, considering his own words. It was true the parks were beautiful. And he could see, Crown Rule did keep the grass green with water sprinklers. It gave the island its economy of rubber and tea. So really, he decided, on balance, it was probably a good thing. Thornton remained silent. Personally he didn’t care if the elephants walked on the railway lines, or the grass all died, or the rubber trees dried up. He had no idea what went on in Jacob’s head.
    ‘Let’s go to the Skyline Hotel tonight,’ he had suggested instead. ‘There’s a jazz band I know playing there.’
    ‘I can’t,’ Jacob said