Sir Randolph went over to greet Glass and the other keepers while the shooters, their loaders forming another sub-group in this apparently heterogenous but in fact multifariously differentiated collection of men, walked about slowly in the chilly sunshine.

Bess and Sam waved their tails while their master conversed with Sir Randolph. Bess, had she not been checked, would certainly have planted her front paws on the waistcoat of one or other of them; but Lorna, Sir Randolph’s own dog, merely trembled, her eyes fixed on his face. She had been brought down by Charlie Pass, Sir Randolph’s loader, from the kennels in the stable yard by the house, and as he talked Sir Randolph held out a hand for her leash and she moved quickly to sit at his heels as Charlie passed it over. Sir Randolph slipped off the leash: it was unnecessary. He trained his own gun dogs and was famous for it; articles on his methods had appeared from time to time in sporting journals and his advice was often sought by breeders and head-keepers. He had had a succession of black, curly-coated retriever bitches, proclaiming them more intelligent than pointers, more dignified than spaniels. One of his maxims was that you should never speak to a dog unnecessarily. Nothing annoyed him more than to see one of his grandchildren making a fuss of Lorna, stroking her, kissing her ears.

‘Don’t fawn on her,’ he would say. ‘It insults her.’

And Lorna, who had been receiving the attentions with every sign of enjoyment, would look ashamed, not having the wits to remember how often, when she might have been expected to be shut away in her kennel, she had lain in front of the fire in the study listening to her master’s voice – or on these occasions only half listening, for she knew that the tone of voice he used in his animadversions on the state of the country, or his reverberating readings in the works of Tennyson or Swinburne, was not really meant for her. Out in the field, however, he kept his resolution, with the result that she was in a state of continuous concentrated attention, ready at a nod or a raised hand, a whistle or a short word of command, to perform miracles of interpretation. He swore that a retriever was the only gun dog you could train to think for itself. ‘When it comes to a decision in the field,’ he said, ‘if she’s left to herself and knows your ultimate aim, nine times out of ten she’ll get it right.’

Gilbert Hartlip walked over to greet the keepers. Sir Randolph suggested that they should walk to the first stand. The beaters were already moving off in the direction of the wood.

‘Looks as though we should have a good day, what?’ said Gilbert Hartlip to Glass.

★

Aline Hartlip was writing letters in her room. She was wearing a morning dress of blue serge with a lace fichu round her neck – it was not yet time to change into the tweeds she would wear when she joined the men for lunch.