‘Oh, rot!’ said her nephew. ‘The old man used to say that you rode straighter than he did. Besides, you’ll like our country, and we’re a most democratic hunt, you know.’

The horses were already in the yard. Jonathan put his aunt neatly into the saddle, mounted his bay mare and led the way at a walk out of the muddy yard and into the wood.

They were in good time, and left the horses to choose the pace up the long woodland ride, now quickened into life by the appearance of the first wild daffodils. At the edge of the wood the gorse was in honey-scented flower, and the sinuous treachery of blackberry sprays was as quick as the green of the hawthorn. The leaf-mould underfoot was as soft as a feather bed and about as resistant, and the horses took matters easily, walking delicately on through the woods until they came to the open country.

Here Jonathan jerked the bay mare into a trot until they reached the road. There the horses sobered again, and walked in single file on the grassy boundary.

The meet was at a place called County’s Green, and the small local hunt was gathered in front of a white-painted Georgian house with a semi-circular lawn now in process of hoof-printed destruction.

Jonathan introduced his aunt to the people he thought she ought to know, and it was not long before the riders moved off.

The country around County’s Green was less wooded and not so steeply hilly as some of the Cotswolds, but it was good, broad, undulating land, and, except for the inevitable stone walls, free from unprepossessing obstacles.

‘No wire round here,’ said Jonathan, as the hunt moved off across a billowing field, ‘and the country’s wide open. We ought to get a good run. There are plenty of foxes. As long as the hounds can be kept to one only, we should have a glorious time. Hullo! Look at him! Cheeky rascal!’

A brown hare was occupying the middle of the field. Suddenly he became aware of hounds and dashed away, staring anxiously behind him and almost running into a gate. The Huntsman reminded the hounds that their business was with foxes, and suddenly the hunt was inspired by the thrilling music of a find.

Mrs Bradley was a light-weight and was on a rather high horse. It was a gentlemanly creature, but it wanted to be up with the foremost. It got into its stride, its elderly rider nothing loth, and, grinning with pleasure, Mrs Bradley went past her nephew with a thunder of hoofs and a devil’s dance of thick-flying clods, as the ten-couple pack fled on.