He drank only lemonade. There was an occasional flash of pain at his right temple, sharp, but so brief that he hoped by ignoring it to prevent it from developing into a real headache. The worst thing, he had discovered, was to think about it. Marcus’s artless admiration, his eagerness, like a good schoolboy, to learn, was the best possible distraction. At the same time Gilbert was not at ease. He was always tense and nervous when shooting – it was the ability when in action to keep this nervousness under an icy control which made him not just a good shot but a brilliant one – but today there was also a curious underlying feeling of dissatisfaction. It was something to do with what Aline had said to him last night, and the thought that she had probably said it on purpose to annoy made it no better; he did not think she would have invented it.

People were talking about him, were comparing him with others, doubting his supremacy. He had been one of the best shots in England for many years. He had few rivals, and those he had he liked and respected. If he had heard that people had been saying that Lord Ripon shot better than he did he would not have minded; he knew quite well that on some days Lord Ripon indeed shot better than he did, on other days he shot better than Lord Ripon. It was quite different to be compared adversely with Lionel Stephens. Lionel Stephens did not even shoot very much – he certainly did not take it as seriously as Gilbert did. More than that, he was probably half Gilbert’s age; so that though he might have the advantages of youth – quick reactions, steadiness of hand and eye – the older man’s infinitely greater experience could be expected easily to outweigh them. Gilbert had overheard Cicely, in one of her never-failing conversational gambits, asking Lionel which he considered his best sport, expecting no doubt that he would say shooting or hunting, and he had answered ‘Billiards.’ Billiards!

Not that there was anything against a man’s playing a good game of billiards. In billiards you needed a good eye, a steady hand and an ability to place your weight where it was needed. Of course Lionel Stephens had all that – it was just what pre-eminently, being a strongly built, fit, physically well-balanced young man, he did have: it was the balance that was important, making it easy for him to control his strength. He was well built, there was no doubt about it, bound to excel at all forms of sport – of course, but to talk of him in the same breath as the famous Lord Hartlip, who was pursued by gun-makers, begged to accept their finest weapons as gifts if he would only mention their name, besought by the makers of shooting equipment to lend his imprimatur to their coats or game bags or spats (there was something on the market called the Hartlip hip-flask – ironically, since he never took alcohol until the sport was over) and invited by the owners of the finest shooting all over the world as their most honoured guest – to talk of Lionel Stephens as a possible rival – this was surely ridiculous? And yet Aline had told him that this was what people were doing, talking of them as if they were rivals, on equal terms. If he had heard of it, no doubt so had the young man; he was probably being egged on by the women. Cicely, Olivia Lilburn, the lot of them.