In ignorance of his host’s view on nationality, Tibor waited in his new Norfolk jacket (perhaps a little more tightly belted than an Englishman would have worn it) with his gun (made for him by Mr Henry Holland in Bond Street) casually pointing skywards over his shoulder, his heart and his stomach both in good order. An English autumn morning, prospects of sport, pleasant companions, hints of a flirtation to be pursued later on, what more, Tibor Rakassyi would have said in his excellent English, could a fellow want?

The first shot came from Lord Hartlip, immediately followed by the thump of a pheasant hitting the ground from a considerable height. For a few seconds there was only the sound of the approaching beaters, an alarm call from a running pheasant in the undergrowth, a scattering of blackbirds from the bramble bushes, then the loud whirr of wings and the birds began to fly out, at first in ones and twos and then in rapidly succeeding groups high and fast. Eyes forward, legs slightly apart – one in front of the other – left hand well forward along the barrel, each shooter discharged his two barrels, held out his gun to be exchanged and fired again with intense concentration for the space of about six minutes. The beaters, noisier now as they roused the last birds unwillingly to flight, reached the fence at the edge of the wood and faced the guns. With a final swing Lionel Stephens brought down a high bird a few yards behind him; it could be heard hitting the ground in the renewed silence. The drive was over.

‘Fifteen,’ muttered Percy Maidment to his companion, a Nettleby boy. ‘Agreed?’

‘Agreed.’

Sir Randolph was always relieved when the first drive was over. He could tell from that, he felt, how the day was going to go. On this morning’s showing, the day was going to go perfectly.

He walked towards the next stand with Gilbert Hartlip, anxious to show him that any coolness he might have noticed in his manner when he had discovered him practising changing guns in the billiard-room that morning was to be attributed solely to the earliness of the hour. Of course, Gilbert was a capital sportsman; how could it have crossed his mind even for a second that he could possibly be anything else? He was looking better this morning too.

‘Rotten luck those headaches you get. I’m so glad to see you looking fit again this morning.’

‘I borrowed some medicine of Aline’s last night. Seemed to do the trick. Got me a decent night’s sleep anyway. I’m sorry I had to go up early like that.’

‘We didn’t stay up late. Even the card players turned in soon after you did. And the Stamps have never been night birds.’

‘I hear he’s thinking of letting.’

‘Letting? Harry Stamp? What, letting Corston, d’you mean?’

‘So he was saying last night.’

‘Really? Good Lord. That’s very bad news. Harry Stamp letting. I’d never have thought it of him.’