‘Aline, I … Now tell me, why is Gilbert not in a good mood?’

Aline squeezed her arm.

‘Don’t try to change the subject. You know I am the soul of discretion.’

Lionel, less cautious than Olivia, came up to walk on her other side.

‘That’s what I mean,’ murmured Aline; then as Olivia turned to look at her in confused surprise, she squeezed her arm still tighter and whispered into her ear, ‘Congrats, old thing!’

Bob Lilburn, happening at that moment to turn round, saw his wife in conversation with Aline Hartlip, and noticing on her face an expression of slightly appalled confusion and knowing that Aline’s conversation could sometimes be on a level a little too worldly for Olivia’s more delicate taste, paused, smiling benignly, and waited for them to catch up with him. Lionel dropped back to walk with Tommy Farmer and Marcus, who were trudging along behind in companionable silence. Bob took Lionel’s place beside Olivia.

‘How goes it?’

‘Very well.’

‘You’ll have to get to like shooting you know, if you’re going to take an interest when young Charlie starts.’

‘Surely that won’t be for a long time?’

‘Only thirteen years or so. Stand with me this time, why not? D’you think old Stephens can spare you? Lionel!’ he called over his shoulder, ‘Can you spare my wife for this stand? I want to show her how ordinary men shoot.’ He turned back to Olivia, taking Lionel’s smiling consent for granted.

‘Don’t expect me to shoot how he’s been shooting today. He’s almost put Gilbert’s nose out of joint for once, Aline, hasn’t he?’

‘Hush,’ said Aline. ‘It mustn’t be said.’

‘Very naughty of me. They’re both superb. We’re jolly lucky to be in the same party.’

Thirteen years, Olivia thought, where will I be in thirteen years?

Cornelius Cardew was tiring a little by the time the Nettleby woods came in sight. He had still some way to go before he reached them but the road was straight and though the stillness and chill of the air, and the bluish mist which lay in thin wisps between him and his destination, foreshadowed evening, he was not afraid of being too late. His design was to arrive at the very end of the day’s shooting, to approach Sir Randolph in the most polite manner, and to ask whether he might call on him later to discuss with him one or two problems in which he felt sure they were both equally interested – not animal rights, no, no, that could be left for another day, after Sir Randolph had read the pamphlet – but matters concerned rather with the land, with country life, with the needs of the country districts. That was how he would put it, and if Sir Randolph, understandably tired after the day’s disreputable activities, should say he was unable to see him until the next morning, well then the next morning it would have to be, even if it meant another night in that unspeakably uncomfortable inn. The chance of a sympathetic hearing, the possibility of a convert, should never be missed. Cornelius too often felt that he did nothing but preach to the converted – it was so difficult to find anyone else who would listen – and just at this moment, after his stimulating visit to the Cotswold Tolstoyans, his brain was humming with ideas and arguments such as no man of Sir Randolph’s obvious sympathies and independence of view – unexpected as they were in one on the face of it so likely to have his opinions predetermined by his social position – could resist. All the same Cornelius hoped Sir Randolph would not make him wait until the next day. He hoped he would take him up to the house and offer him a cup of tea, not with the entire company, naturally, but quietly somewhere, in some small, book-lined study in front of a coal fire, where they could talk in peace.