“Mrs. Huggins wouldn’t let him out of the house. She said it would be too bad for his chest. She’s taken to bossing him around lately, I notice.”

“She has her eye on him,” I said.

“Well, why not? Poor old dear. He needs some companionship in his old age,” she said.

“You’d welcome Mrs. Huggins as a stepmother?”

A spasm crossed that perfect face. “Well, if you put it that way, it might be a tad embarrassing. But she does cook well and I find it a comfort to know she’s looking after him.”

“He could do with more money.” I decided to be frank.

“Darling, do you think I haven’t tried? He claims it’s all German money and he won’t touch it. Always was stubborn, you know.”

The sound of a drum interrupted this conversation and the Boys’ Brigade band marched in, playing “The British Grenadiers.” An announcer with a megaphone got up onto a makeshift dais.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the two hundred and thirty-third running of the Lovey Chase,” he boomed. “Presenting this year’s contestants: From Widecombe, Tony Haslett. From Little Devering, Roland Purbury. From right here in Tiddleton, Monty Hawse-Gorzley. Visiting us from Shropshire, give a hand for a very good sport, Mr. Archibald Wetherby. . . .”

The flaps of a big tent were drawn back and out came the most extraordinary apparitions. They were wearing white woolen long johns and long-sleeved woolen undershirts. On their heads were ancient plumed helmets like those worn by the dragoon guards and around their waists were small saddles, with stirrups hanging down to their knees. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more ridiculous. There were shouts, jeers, taunts as the young men came out, one by one.

“From Bovey Tracey, Mr. Jonathan Protheroe. And from Ireland, the Honorable Darcy O’Mara.” Darcy caught my eye for a brief second and gave me an embarrassed grin.

“Runners to the starting gate, please,” the announcer shouted. Everyone cheered now. “Five times around the track,” he continued. “No cheating and cutting corners or running around the jumps in the fog. Anyone not playing fairly will be disqualified.”

The runners lined up along a ribbon laid on the ground. Their breath rose into the frigid air and they looked like a row of warhorses, ready for battle. One of the boys from the band stepped forward with his bugle and sounded the call. The starter waved his flag and they were off. It was soon clear that the saddles and flying stirrups were a bally nuisance. These danced and flew around, hitting other racers and getting in the way as they tried to jump. There was a collision at the first jump as Badger and a hefty lad tried to jump it at the same time. More cheers and jeers. And then they were swallowed up into the mist.