Jonathan shook loose the bay mare and soon caught up with his aunt. At a stone-faced bank he lost her again, for the mare pecked, whereas Mrs Bradley’s nobleman, deciding that the bank was negligible, soared over it with a terrific lift of his haunches but as neatly as a ribboned jumper at a horse show.

The sun rose higher, the clods continued to fly, everyone was warm, and the first fever-heat of enthusiasm settled to a tattoo of hoof-beats.

‘The unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable,’ yelled Jonathan, catching up with his aunt again as the hounds streamed into a sandy road and checked for an instant at the turn.

‘Rubbish,’ responded Mrs Bradley. ‘The tushery in pursuit of the brushery is far more applicable.’ She waved her whip towards a rather precious young man who was obviously clinging on for dear life and who was doing so badly that the motion of his tall, heavy horse resembled that of a Bactrian camel.

‘Lor!’ said Jonathan, awe-stricken. ‘Do you think he learned to ride like that in a circus?’

His aunt by-passed this uncharitable remark, and the course soon changed. The hedge at the roadside was broad and could not be leapt from the difficult, low-lying track. The hounds found a gap, but the riders, except for the Huntsman (who discovered a thin place and pulled his horse through and over) were forced to jog-trot behind a milk-van until they came to a gate.

‘Lost touch,’ said Jonathan, for there was now no sign of the hounds. ‘This way. Come on. I know it here. We’ll soon pick up again.’

The way led along a path worn during the summer by picnic-parties, goats and marauding boys. In the foreground there was a wood. Skirting this, and guided by the sound of the horn, Jonathan and his aunt soon found themselves on a downhill slope and heading towards a wicket-gate into the woods. In front of them was the circus equestrian.

‘Damn!’ said Jonathan. He pulled up. ‘Sorry. I’ll get off and open it.’

The camel-rider, however, had no such scruples. He made a dash at the gate, had the salutary experience of a rightly refusing horse, and landed on the top of his head.

‘Job for you,’ said Jonathan to his aunt. Mrs Bradley abandoned her horse, opened the gate and knelt beside the stricken and unconscious egoist. Gently she felt for the injury. This was not very severe. The man had been wearing a top hat with his pink, and this had acted as a crash helmet. In a second or two he sat up, shaky but in possession of his faculties.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Silly trick.’

‘You might have spiked your mare,’ said Jonathan severely; but his aunt thought better of the young exquisite than she had supposed she would. She and her nephew helped him up.