‘Can’t think what it means.’

‘You do sound cross.’

‘I am cross. Your friend Lionel Stephens is being thoroughly annoying. For some unknown reason he’s setting himself up in rivalry to me. He’s trying to beat my score. I’ve already had to speak to him once about poaching.’

‘And is he beating your score?’

‘He’s pretty near to doing so.’

‘By how much?’

‘Oh, the odd brace.’

‘If it’s only the odd brace, does it matter? Everyone knows you’re a wonderful shot, and if every now and then someone gets the odd brace more than you, does it really matter?’

‘That’s not what you were saying last night.’

‘I was in a bad mood last night.’

‘It’s bad form. He’s younger than me. He should know better than to set himself up in competition. Besides, Randolph doesn’t like it.’

‘That’s just a fad of Randolph’s. In plenty of places where one goes to shoot one’s actually given a score card to fill in.’

‘I know, but if one’s host doesn’t like it … He thinks it’s a foreign habit, and ungentlemanly.’

‘But you don’t agree with him.’

‘No, I don’t, as it happens.’

‘It’s just one of his old-fashioned eccentricities. I shouldn’t pay any attention to it. You’ve got two more drives. Why don’t you beat him in those?’

‘I can’t shoot any more birds than I’m shooting already.’

‘I expect you could if you tried. Poach a bit or something. Why not? It’s more fun. I don’t see why Lionel should have everything his own way.’

The October afternoon turned early towards evening, extending over the countryside a veil of mist so light as to be barely discernible, giving only an effect as if everything were to be seen through water, faintly opaque. The smoke from the village chimneys rose straight into the air, bluish-grey against the pinkish-grey of the sky. Cornelius turned away from the village, taking the road which led towards the woods, whose soft green or mouse-brown expanse, interspersed with autumn red and gold, lay now only a mile or so in front of him. A few yellowish leaves fell slowly onto the road from the almost bare branches of the elms which grew here and there along the hedgerows; a blackbird flew across his path with a loud alarm call, and a jay, flying higher, gave its own raucous warning. Cornelius rubbed his forehead irritably; in spite of the chill in the air, the midges were still biting. He heard the sound of shots from the wood and looked at his watch. It was a quarter to four and the light was still good. That would be likely to be the drive before the last one. His timing was perfect.

Minnie and Ida heard the shots too, sitting side by side in the back of the Daimler. They also congratulated themselves on the accuracy of their timing, but they did so inwardly and severally, each staring out of the window on her own side of the car. It was not unusual for Minnie and Ida to have nothing much to say to each other.