And then? She spent the rest of the day driving round the Forest. First she went down to Buckler's Hard. There was a maritime museum by its grassy banks now. There was a model of the shipyard as it would have been during the building of one of Nelson's ships, the Swiftsure, which caught her eye. She noted that sections of the great Mulberry Harbours used for the D-Day landings in World War II had also been built on the Beaulieu River. Interesting stuff, certainly.

East of Beaulieu lay Exbury Gardens and Lepe County Park. Along the edge of the Forest on the Southampton side were a nature centre and a model farm. A little further north she found a leisure park with children's rides. The message was clear. The modern New Forest had equipped itself in a very professional way to attract large numbers of visitors. Nor was this only a matter for the larger operators. When Dottie drove across to the dark little enclave of Burley in the afternoon, she found that the village was busily trading on its reputation for witchcraft with at least three shops selling witch's trinkets of every kind. Tourism and recreation: was that the future of the king's old hunting ground?

Monday morning was bright. Dottie was quite excited as she made her way up the steep curve of Lyndhurst's main street. On her left, the high Victorian tower of the church soared into a pale blue spring sky.

When she had telephoned the New Forest Museum, she had not only been told she should go to this morning's meeting, but they had offered to have someone there to meet her. 'Don't worry,' the voice on the telephone had laughed. 'We'll find you.'

As she came to the top of the street, she saw why. The Queen's House, the ancient royal lodge and manor, was a handsome old red-brick building. Outside a door to the side of it, a group of about twenty people had already gathered to wait. It was obvious from the way they were talking that they all knew each other. She was the only stranger. She looked around.

'Would you be Dottie Pride?' a voice asked behind her.

'Yes.' She turned. A hand was held out. A nod. A smile. Did he say his name? If so, she did not catch it.

All she knew was that she was looking at the most beautiful man she had ever seen in her life. He was tall and slim, Celtic-looking. He might have been Irish. His hair fell in dark ringlets to his shoulders. With his pale, sensitive face, he looked like the pictures of the metaphysical poets of the seventeenth century. His brown eyes were soft, wonderfully intelligent. He was wearing a brown leather jacket.

'We can go in now,' he said pleasantly. 'The door's opening.'