In a way, Albion considered, their situations were similar. When Wyndham Martell had died, he had divided his estates between his three sons: the old Dorset estates going to the oldest son, the land in Kent to the second, and the smaller New Forest estate deriving from Fanny going to Godwin who had taken his mother's name instead of his father's as more fitting for the owner of the old Albion inheritance. Large though Wyndham Martell's possessions had been, those of the duke were vast. Though a descendant of the Stuart kings through the unfortunate Monmouth, as well as being a Montagu, a large part of his ancestry came from the Scottish aristocracy. His lands, north and south of the border, ran to hundreds of thousands of acres. It was a small matter for him to grant his second son the eight thousand acres of the Beaulieu estate as a wedding present; but it was a great matter for the New Forest. For although the duke and his family had always been good landlords of Beaulieu through their stewards, it was hardly the same thing as having an owner in residence; whereas now Lord Henry - as the son of a duke the title of lord was placed as a courtesy before his name - had set about plans for rebuilding the ruined abbey as a family home and was taking a keen interest in the place.

It was time to board the train. The Colonel had given Pride a ticket for the second-class carriage. He and Lord Henry prepared to step into the first-class and he had just got one foot in through the door when a voice hailing him from further down the platform caused him to turn, start violently and almost lose his balance.

'Watch out,' said the voice, cheerfully. 'You nearly fell down.'

The owner of the voice, who now came with an easy, swinging gait towards them, was in his twenties. He was dressed in a loose velvet coat and a wide felt hat. Under his arm he carried a satchel. These attributes, in addition to his small pointed goatee beard and the long curls of fair hair that reached his shoulders, all suggested that the young gentleman was an artist of some kind.

'Going to London?' he enquired amiably.

The Colonel did not reply, but his jaw set and his hand clenched as though he were about to slash a Russian with his sabre.

'I'm going up to look at some pictures,' the young man continued, then, glancing at Lord Henry: 'Have we met?'

And now, if only to stop this infuriating flow, Colonel Albion turned to face the young man. 'I have nothing to say to you, Sir,' he roared. 'Good day!' And he hurled himself forward into the carriage as furiously as if it were a Russian battery.