‘Coming!’ Minnie sang out sweetly, her musical voice itself a reproach to Ida’s lack of charm.

What a bore to have to leave her comfortable bed, put on her brogues, her hat (those stupid hatpins!) her coat, her gloves, be driven a mile or two, stand in the now rapidly chilling air and watch a lot of silly birds being killed, as if one hadn’t seen it all hundreds of times before; but never mind, it was a duty, and what was life, thought Minnie cheerfully, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and getting a little heavily to her feet, but one long round of duty?

‘What’s our score, Percy?’

Lionel was waiting by the wood with Percy Maidment and Ellen’s brother Johnny. Olivia had gone to stand with her husband.

‘92 pheasants, 3 hares, 2 woodcock,’ said Percy, without reference to his notebook.

‘Not too bad. How’s everyone else doing, do you know?’

‘Lord Hartlip has 88 pheasants, 2 hares, 1 woodcock, sir. No one else to touch the two of you.’

‘You’ve been taking a pretty keen interest then?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Is Lord Hartlip keeping his score?’

‘He is, sir. And his man is.’

‘I see. Well, I don’t mind, but it’s not popular with our host, so keep quiet about it, will you?’

‘Yes sir.’

Lionel turned to look in the direction from which the next batch

of pheasants could be expected to appear, his back towards the loaders.

‘How many more drives?’ he said without looking round.

‘Two, sir.’

Lionel stood in silence for some moments, his gun under his arm, its muzzle pointing downwards. The sounds of the beaters began to approach.

‘I daresay we can manage to keep ahead of Lord Hartlip,’ said Lionel quietly.

Percy smiled, delighted.

‘Yes, sir. That’s the spirit, sir.’

He had been within an inch of glory, Lionel felt. She had faced him with all her marvellous courage and truthfulness and said I love you.

The spirit of love possessed them, but the world had been all round them and they had not been able to possess each other. He had wanted – how could he not have done so? – the immediate triumph; they should have fallen to the ground among the red gold leaves like a lion and lioness; instead he had had to talk polite nonsense, to smile and fall back when her husband claimed his place by her side. The consummation must come, of that Lionel felt certain, but how and where and after what difficulties? And then to be told his man was causing feeling, would he restrain him, would he restrain himself as well, was no doubt meant, not shoot so well, not bother Gilbert Hartlip – but why? For form’s sake. Form meant too much to people like Randolph Nettleby (of course in a quiet way until now he’d rather idolized the man, thought of him as someone to be admired and appreciated, listened to and emulated as much as anyone that he knew; but everything was different now, not because he was in love – that was nothing new – but because he was loved). Form was not enough; or rather it was too much, too restricting a framework for the natural man. He was a better lover for Olivia than Bob Lilburn and a better shot than Gilbert Hartlip. It was impossible and unnecessary for him to conceal these things.