There was another shooting party at Nettleby, of course. The late November shoot, already organized, duly took place. The guests were different, the birds were plentiful, the weather though much colder was dry and bright. No one enjoyed it as much as usual; even for those who had not been there when it happened the shadow of the accident fell over the day. For the rest of the season Sir Randolph went out only with a few neighbours, or with Harry Stamp and his grandson Marcus. By the time the next season came round a bigger shooting party had begun, in Flanders.

By that time too a small notice had appeared in the Court Circular of The Times: ‘Lord and Lady Hartlip have taken up residence in Kenya and their permanent address in future will be …’

There had been an inquest and a verdict of accidental death and an expression of sympathy from the Coroner for the unfortunate sportsman whose skill was well known and who had certainly not deserved this stroke of bad luck. (The Coroner, in other words, simply grovelled to Lord Hartlip, but no one seemed to think this odd, or even deserving of comment.) The Hartlips continued their lives as before; only the trouble was that in their small world the news very quickly circulated that the accident had not in fact been bad luck, and that Gilbert had been shooting dangerously. He’s losing his skill, they said, and can’t accept it; it’s making him a dangerous shot; he’s not the great sportsman he used to be; one finds oneself reluctant, they said, to go on asking him to shoot.

Aline, quick to sense the direction of opinion, gave a series of dinner parties. She tempted her guests with musicians, with Russian Grand Dukes, famous beauties, Society painters, great newspaper proprietors, Sir Reuben Hergesheimer and high-class bridge. Invitations to shoot failed to follow. Aline was confident that all they had to do was to sit it out, but Gilbert was too proud for that. He had spent several months in East Africa, big-game shooting, and had taken a particular liking to Nairobi and the White Highlands. He sold his estates in England and bought a farm near Nanyuki. Aline, at first horrified, soon settled down. She took up rifle shooting herself, and carried on a discreet affair with the ne’er-do-well scion of a noble family who had been sent to Kenya to redeem himself. At least, she felt, one was out of the way of that ghastly War.

Violet and Osbert went down with Nanny to see Tom Harker’s dog.

She had been taken to the kennels next to the gamekeeper’s cottage. Dan Glass let her out to see the children and she came creeping towards them with her sheepdog’s subservient crawl, wagging her tail and smiling so that she made herself sneeze.

Violet crouched down to stroke her.

‘Isn’t she sweet?’