Cornelius, his arms freed, stuck his stick firmly into the ground, paused for a moment to straighten the cardboard placard so that Sir Randolph should be face to face with the third commandment, and produced from his pocket a pamphlet, the same he had given Tom Harker on the previous evening.

‘My own work.’

‘ “The Rights of Animals, a Vindication of the Doctrine of Universal Kinship”. I see. These pheasants of course, if one wanted to be legalistic about it, wouldn’t be here at all if we hadn’t put them here, got the eggs, hatched them out, reared the chicks – you might say we give them life and then after a bit we take it away again – abrogating to ourselves somewhat God-like powers I must admit. But let’s not bother with all that. This is a very well-produced pamphlet, Mr Cardew. Tell me, where do you get such a thing printed? Is it very expensive? I hope you don’t mind my asking?’

‘Not at all. There’s a very good printer in Dorking, near where I live, an excellent man of anarchist views. He gives me very good rates.’

‘Special terms, ah. I shouldn’t get such good ones, I suppose.’

‘Are you a pamphleteer, sir?’

‘I was thinking of making some sort of foray in that direction. I’m very concerned about the neglect of rural life in this country. People don’t understand its importance you know, don’t understand, if I may say so, its traditions – in which I would include its sports. I’m perpetually expressing myself on paper on these subjects. I thought I might put together some little thing for publication, a pamphlet yes, a polemic really, a polemic I think is probably the right word.’

‘Rural life, I see. Would you include economics, the plight of the agricultural labourer and so on?’

‘Certainly. Unless we support our agriculture the people who work on the land will soon be as poor as the Irish. Half of them live in hovels as it is, eating nothing but boiled pudding.’

Cornelius nodded. ‘The decay of rural life, a polemic. I’m sure I could interest my printer friend. The decay – the ruin even would you say? – would you say the ruin?’

‘The ruin, if you like.’

‘The Ruin of Rural England. A Polemic. A diatribe. Could you make it a diatribe?’

‘Certainly I could make it a diatribe.’

‘The Ruin of Rural England, a Diatribe!’

‘Precisely.’

The drive over, those nearest Sir Randolph strolled towards him, curious to observe the intruder; the men picking up the birds or urging the dogs to do so eyed him suspiciously. All were surprised, none pleased, to see Sir Randolph and Cornelius Cardew facing each other with satisfied smiles over the militant title at which they had arrived. Their pose struck no one as appropriate.

‘That man deserves to be shot,’ said Bob Lilburn loudly as he approached.

‘He damned nearly was,’ said Tommy Farmer, supportively indignant.

‘Perhaps we might continue our discussion some other time?’ murmured Sir Randolph. ‘These murderers are a hot-blooded lot you know. If I may keep this? I shall certainly read it. And perhaps it has your address?’