The room was uncomfortably full. To the east, the folding doors had been flung back and the small orchestra sawed away on the stage set against the far wall. Around the edge of the dance floor, people were packed in tight conversational clumps between the dancers and the crowded rows of round tables, each decorated with a centerpiece of yellow flowers and a candle lantern in the shape of a minaret. Groups of people jostled in every available aisle. Waiters squeezed in and out of the crowd, carrying tilting trays of hors d’oeuvres high above everyone’s head as if competing to make it the length of the room and back without dispensing a single puff pastry. The room was redolent with a smell like orchids, and slightly humid, either from perspiration or from the tropical ferns that dripped from many sizes and shapes of Styrofoam column.

Mrs. Ali waved to Mrs. Rasool, who could be seen dispensing waiters from the kitchen door as if she were sending messengers to and from a battlefield. As they watched, she dispensed Mr. Rasool the elder; he wobbled out with a tray held dangerously low and made it no farther than the first set of tables before being picked clean. Mrs. Rasool hurried forward and, with practiced discretion, pulled him back to the safety of the kitchen.

The Major steered Mrs. Ali into a slow circle around the dance floor. As the main bar, next to the kitchen, was invisible behind the battalion of thirsty guests waving for drinks, he had decided to steer for a secondary bar, set up in the lee of the stage, hoping that he might then navigate them into the relative quiet of the enclosed sun porch. The Major had forgotten how difficult it was to navigate such a crush while protecting a lady from both the indifferent backs of the chatting groups and the jousting elbows of enthusiastic dancers. The benefit however, of needing to keep Mrs. Ali’s arm tucked close against his side was almost compensation enough. He had a fleeting hope that someone might knock her over into his arms.

Costumes ran the full array from the expensively rented to the quickly improvised. Near a tall column decked in trailing vines, they met Hugh Whetstone wearing a safari jacket and a coolie hat.

“Is that also from The Mikado?” asked the Major, shouting to be heard.

“Souvenir from our cruise to Hong Kong,” said Whetstone. “I refused to spend another penny on costumes after what the wife went out and spent on full maharani rig.” Together they looked around the room. The Major spotted Mrs. Whetstone in a lime-green sari talking to Mortimer Teale, who had traded his usual sober solicitor’s suit for a blazer and yellow cravat, worn over cricket pants and riding boots. He seemed to be enjoying a good leer at Mrs. Whetstone’s flesh, which emerged in doughy rolls from a brief satin blouse. She seemed to be happily explaining to Mortimer all about the temporary tattooed snake that rose out of her cleavage and over her collar bone.

“I mean, where is she ever going to wear it again?” complained Hugh. The Major shook his head, which Hugh took to be agreement but which was really the Major dismissing both Hugh, who didn’t care enough to even notice other men paying attention to his wife, and Mortimer, who never brought his wife anywhere with him if he could help it.

“Perhaps you could use it as a bedspread,” suggested Mrs. Ali.

“I’m sorry! Mrs. Ali, you know Hugh Whetstone?” The Major had hoped to avoid introductions; Hugh was already listing to one side and breathing fumes.

“Don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” said Hugh, obviously not recognizing her either.

“I’m usually wrapping you half a pound of streaky bacon, three ounces of Gorgonzola, and a half dozen slim panatelas,” said Mrs. Ali, raising an eyebrow.

“Good God, you’re the shop lady,” he said, leering openly now. “Remind me to up my order from now on.”

“Got to go. Must get a drink,” said the Major, making sure to put his body between Mrs. Ali and Hugh’s notorious bottom-pinching hands as he led her away. He realized with some pain that all evening he was going to have to introduce Mrs. Ali to people who had been buying their milk and newspapers from her for years. Whetstone bellowed after them: “Renting a native princess is pretty excessive, I’d say.”

Before the Major could formulate a retort, the music ended; in the rearrangement of the crowd, Daisy Green was suddenly upon them like a beagle on a fox cub. She was dressed as some kind of lady ambassador in a white gown and blue sash with many strange medals and pins. A large feathered brooch decorated one side of her head and a single peacock feather trailed backward, catching people in the face as they walked by.

“Mrs. Ali, you’re not in costume?” she said, as if pointing out a trailing petticoat or a trace of spinach on the teeth.

“Grace and I swapped costumes,” said Mrs. Ali, smiling. “She has my antique shalwar kameez, and I have her aunt’s gown.”

“How disappointing,” said Daisy. “We were so looking forward to seeing you in your beautiful national costume, weren’t we, Christopher?”

“Who?” said the Vicar, appearing from a nearby knot of people. He looked slightly disheveled in riding boots, rumpled military jacket, and safari hat. He wore a cravat made from a scrap of brightly patterned madras and looked, the Major thought, like the ambassador’s wife’s illicit drunken lover. He smiled at a stray image of Daisy and Christopher carrying on such a game at home, after the party.

“Ah, Pettigrew!” The Major shook the proffered hand. He did not attempt to have a conversation: the Vicar was notoriously unable to hear in noisy crowds. This had proved hilarious to several generations of choirboys, who delighted in all talking at once and seeing who could slip the most offensive words past the Vicar’s ears during singing practice.

“Of course, with your wonderful complexion you can wear the wildest of colors.” Daisy was still talking. “Poor Grace, on the other hand—well, lilac is such a difficult color to carry off.”

“I think Grace looks quite wonderful,” said the Major. “Mrs. Ali, too, of course—Mrs. Ali, I believe you know Father Christopher?”

“Of course,” said the Vicar, while his eyes crossed slightly, a clear indication that he had no idea who she was.

“Grace’s aunt was quite legendary for her expensive tastes,” said Daisy, looking up and down Mrs. Ali’s dress as if measuring out a few alterations. “Grace told me she could never get up the nerve to wear any of the dresses. She is so sensitive to even the suggestion of impropriety. But you, my dear, carry it off so well. Do enjoy yourself as much as you can, won’t you.” She was already sweeping away. “Come along Christopher.”

“Who are all these people?” asked the Vicar.

“It is a good thing I don’t drink,” said Mrs. Ali as they pushed on around the crowd.

“Yes, Daisy has that effect on many people,” said the Major. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, please don’t apologize.”

“Sorry,” said the Major before he could stop himself. “Look, I think the bar is just beyond that palm tree.”