Mimi explains the reason for her visit, and Gwenda gives her an appraising blue stare which starts at Mimi’s curly hair, travels past her Husky and V-neck M&S sweater, down to the baggy-fit jeans and clean, green Hunter wellies (hardly anyone wears green wellies, but since Mimi arrived in Dorset, hers have barely left her feet. I don’t have the heart to tell her they mark her out as a townie).

Then Gwenda says, ‘Have the children ridden much before? Hunted?’

‘Well, Posy has had a few months puttering about on a pony,’ says Mimi, relieved that negotiations appear to have started. ‘The Bodens handed him down to us when we arrived.’ She looks at Gwenda narrowly to see whether the name-drop has blipped on Gwenda’s sonar but, if it has, Gwenda gives no sign. ‘But now Posy’s shot up, we’re wondering whether she should have some proper lessons, and maybe keep on Trumpet…’

At the mention of the name Trumpet, Gwenda’s eyes narrow into slits. It’s as if she has Mimi in her sights.

‘Pony? Grey Shetland?’ She rattles out the question like gunshot.

‘Well, I thought he was a white Exmoor,’ says Mimi.

‘Mm,’ says Gwenda. A vulpine look has come across her face, as if she is on the scent of a quarry. ‘It’s the rufty-tufty ponies that make the best hunters, not the smartly bred ones. Tell you what, Mrs Fleming, I could use him for the hunt, for the youngsters, to start off their hunting careers.’

Then she goes on to talk about Trumpet for some time: ‘The first time he saw hounds he was on his tiptoes… as soon as we moved off he was fine… good little jumper… bit small but goes like the clappers… really used his head,’ and so on. Then she finishes, ‘Some ponies, they’ve been passed from so many hunting families that it’s a job remembering who are the actual owners… they become the hunt’s unofficial property.’

She gives Mimi a look designed to ascertain whether Mimi has understood her point, which is that the fact that Trumpet is the much-loved Fleming-stroke-Boden family pony, indeed, a member of their family, and beloved pet, is mere detail. As a perfect hunting pony, he by rights belongs to her… to the hunt.

Even Mimi knows where this is heading. ‘No problem,’ she says. ‘Trumpet’s not seeing a lot of action at the moment, Mrs Melplash.’

‘Gwenda,’ said Gwenda. ‘And it’s not Mrs.’

‘I’m sure it would be OK for you to borrow Trumpet for the hunt, erm, Gwenda,’ says Mimi. ‘T’ll just check it with Posy, but I don’t think she’ll mind.’

Gwenda looks privately triumphant, and there is a steely glint in her eye as she sees us off the premises.

‘I’m beginning to think I’ve got this whole country thing down,’ Mimi says, in a satisfied voice, as we walk back, on the road, in a slight drizzle. I am wondering whether Jesse Marlon will still be in the house, or whether he will have gone back to Spodden’s Hatch. ‘i’ve definitely swung a major discount on riding lessons for the children now, don’t you think?’