Max the pocket plutocrat sounds very cross indeed that he has shot someone. And not, it has to be said, in the least bit sorry. At his performance and outburst, the under-keeper, who has been standing by his shoulder, and loading for him, and telling him in theory which birds to aim at and which to leave well alone, pulls his cap off his head, and throws it to the ground in disgust.

Serena canters gracefully down to the Lar, races over the Chinese bridge and darts over to the stricken shape of the beater, who is lying on the muddy ground, clutching at his shoulder. All the other beaters move towards him, their business of emerging from woods and issuing non-verbal orders to retrievers and spaniels to fetch the dead so that the birds might be hung by their necks with red twine, alongside the braces of pheasant and other wildfowl in the trailer, interrupted by the lone gunman.

Serena rushes up and cradles him in her arms. After his Barbour has been removed, the couple make a touching pietà, especially when the blood starts to bloom redly on the white check of his shirt.

I stride up, fast. I’ve never looked at Colin Watts properly before. There’s a streak of mud down one cheek, and his cap has fallen off his tousled head.

There’s something terribly attractive about men who become dirtied and soiled in the act of committing masculinity (I refer the court to the muddied thighs of the rugby player, the sweating dirtiness of the hod-carrrier, and rest my case), and now I gaze down at Colin Watts with new eyes. He just lies there, blinking, enabling Serena and I to notice that it was terribly unfair. Just as men invariably have better legs than us, so do they always get the longer, curlier lashes.

‘It’s all right, miss,’ he says, casting upwards to Serena a look of bravery of which Saint Sebastian himself would have been proud. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ve only been peppered. It’s just a bit of shot.’ Colin struggles to his feet, trying not to cry out as he moves his shoulder. ‘Long as I can still open the bowling for Honeyborne this summer, that’s all I care.’

A beater slowly hands him a dense chunk of fruitcake wrapped up in tinfoil from a capacious pocket, where it has been warmed by a newly dead pigeon. His knotty hands are stained with blood. Colin nods, and slots it into a pocket.