‘Good high birds,’ the shooters said.

‘Plenty of them.’

‘That was a real rocketer you got on that last drive, Gilbert,’ said Bob Lilburn.

‘A lucky shot that one.’

‘You’re too modest. I heard you once had seven dead birds in the air at once. I’ve always wanted to ask you if it was true. At Sandringham, was it?’

‘Yes, well, conditions there are so good one tends to find one’s best form. Especially when there’s such a virtuoso as the present monarch to spur one on. I know one had better not say a word against the late lamented King in this household, but the present chap’s a much better shot.’

‘I’ve only shot with him once, at Lowther. We had the Kaiser that day too. Very Royal.’

‘He doesn’t do too badly does he, considering he only uses a 20-bore because of the arm?’

‘I always have a feeling you can’t rely on a fellow with a withered arm. Irrational, I suppose.’

‘He can be very charming. Arrogant, of course. Great friend of mine’s got a withered arm. Mauled by a tiger in India. Nothing wrong with him.’

‘That’s different. Not born with it. Does he shoot?’

‘Who, George? Not any more. He’s a first-rate helmsman though.’

Two tall men in tweeds striding across the plough talking of the great days at Cowes, the new twelve metres, Sir Thomas Lipton’s Shamrock, the America’s Cup.

‘Too loud,’ muttered Sir Randolph to his grandson. ‘Don’t know why people have to chatter so when they’re out shooting.’

‘Not as bad as Cicely.’

‘If your sister talks when she comes out this afternoon I shall send her home. Last time she seemed to think it necessary to squeak every time the fellow she was standing next to let off his gun.’

‘I couldn’t seem to hit a thing at the last stand. Did you see me at all?’

‘You vacillate. Doesn’t do to be indecisive. When they’re coming over fast, choose one and aim. I think I caught you looking at your loader too, didn’t I?’

‘I might have.’

‘Never look at your gun or your loader. Keep your eyes forward. Your swing’s improved a lot though. You got a good cross-flyer a couple of drives back.’

They waited in the plough facing a coppice of mixed soft-woods which sloped slightly downhill towards them. Because of the mild autumn many of the leaves were still green: only the horse-chestnuts and ashes were russet. The silence had just begun to give way to the sound of the approaching beaters when a roe deer suddenly appeared at one end of the wood, crashing noisily out of the undergrowth where it had been hiding. It ran towards the line of guns, saw them and turned back towards the woods. When it heard the beaters it hesitated, head high, eyes and nostrils dilated, then with occasional long leaps ran the whole length of the line and away across the Park to the boundary of beech trees. Tibor Rakassyi had raised his gun, but being towards the centre of the line had time to notice that no one else had done so, so did not shoot. A smile seemed to be passed along the line in the wake of the animal. Tibor accordingly received it from Lionel Stephens and passed it on to Tommy Farmer, rather as if it were an item, a slipper perhaps, in one of those mysterious games which Cicely would insist on playing after dinner.