‘Let’s go,’ said Willi, shutting his book.

‘Wait,’ said Jimmy. The sand was now unmoving. He dug into it with a fine stem and dragged out, first the body of the tiny beetle, and then the body of the ant-eater. Now we saw the jaws of the ant-eater were embedded in the body of the beetle. The corpse of the ant-eater was headless.

‘The moral is,’ said Paul, ‘that none but natural enemies should engage.’

‘But who should decide which are natural enemies and which are not?’ said Jimmy.

‘Not you,’ said Paul. ‘Look how you’ve upset the balance of nature. There is one ant-eater the less. And probably hundreds of ants that should have filled its maw will now live. And there is a dead beetle, slaughtered to no purpose.’

Jimmy stepped carefully over the shining round-pitted river of sand, so as not to disturb the remaining insects lying in wait at the bottom of their sand-traps. He dragged on his shirt over his sweaty reddened flesh. Maryrose got up in the way she had - obedient, patient, long-suffering, as if she had no will of her own. We all stood on the edge of the patch of shade, reluctant to plunge into the now white-hot midday, made dizzy and giddy by the few remaining butterflies who reeled drunk in the heat. And as we stood there, the clump of trees we had lain under sang into life. The cicadas which inhabited this grove, patiently silent these two hours waiting for us to go, burst one after another into shrill sound. And in the sister clump of trees, unnoticed by us, had arrived two pigeons who sat there cooing. Paul contemplated them, his rifle swinging. ‘No,’ said Maryrose, ‘please don’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Please, Paul.’

The heap of nine dead pigeons, tied together by their pink feet, dangled from Paul’s free hand, dripping blood.

‘It is a terrible sacrifice,’ said Paul gravely, ‘but for you, Maryrose, I will refrain.’

She smiled at him, not in gratitude, but in the cool reproachful way she always used for him. And he smiled back, his delightful, brown, blue-eyed face all open for her inspection. They walked off together in front, the dead birds trailing their wings over jade-coloured clumps of grass.

The three of us followed.

‘What a pity,’ remarked Jimmy, ‘that Maryrose disapproves so much of Paul. Because there is no doubt they are what is known as a perfectly-matched couple.’ He had tried the light ironic tone, and almost succeeded. Almost, not quite; his jealousy of Paul grated in his voice.