“My father, I’m afraid, paid terrific attention to those questions.”

“Yes, the last generation. But the only thing Parliament does that really gets the Public now, is the Budget. And no wonder; it all comes back to money.”

“Do you say that to Michael?”

“I don’t have to. Parliament now is just a taxing machine.”

“Surely it still makes laws?”

“Yes, my dear; but always after the event; it consolidates what has become public practice, or at least public feeling. It never initiates. How can it? That’s not a democratic function. If you want proof, look at the state of the country! It’s the last thing Parliament bothers about.”

“Who does initiate, then?”

“Whence doth the wind blow? Well, the draughts begin in the coulisses. Great places, the coulisses! Whom do you want to stand with when we get to the guns?”

“Lord Saxenden.”

Fleur gazed at her: “Not for his beaux jeux, and not for his beau titre. Why, then?”

“Because I’ve got to get at him about Hubert, and I haven’t much time.”

“I see. Well, I’ll give you a warning, my dear. Don’t take Saxenden at his face value. He’s an astute old fox, and not so old either. And if there is one thing he enjoys more than another, it’s his quid pro quo. Have you got a quid for him? He’ll want cash down.”

Dinny grimaced.

“I shall do what I can. Uncle Lawrence has already given me some pointers.”

“‘Have a care; she’s fooling thee,’” hummed Fleur. “Well, I shall go to Michael; it makes him shoot better, and he wants it, poor dear. The Squire and Bart will be glad to do without us. Cicely, of course, will go to Charles; she’s still honey-moonish. That leaves Diana for the American.”

“And I hope,” said Dinny, “she’ll put him off his shots.”

“I should say nothing would. I forgot Adrian; he’ll have to sit on his stick and think about bones and Diana. Here we are. See? Through this gate. There’s Saxenden, they’ve given him the warm corner. Go round by that stile and come on him from behind. Michael will be jammed away at the end, he always gets the worst stand.”

She parted from Dinny and went on down the lane. Conscious that she had not asked Fleur what she had wanted to, Dinny crossed to the stile, and climbing over, stalked Lord Saxenden warily from the other side. The peer was moving from one hedge to the other in the corner of the field to which he had been assigned. Beside a tall stick, to a cleft in which was attached a white card with a number on it, stood a young keeper holding two guns, and at his feet a retriever dog was lying with his tongue out. The fields of roots and stubble on the far side of the lane rose rather steeply, and it was evident to Dinny—something of an expert—that birds driven off them would come high and fast. ‘Unless,’ she thought, ‘there’s fresh cover just behind,’ and she turned to look. There was not. She was in a very large grass field and the nearest roots were three hundred yards away at least. ‘I wonder,’ she thought, ‘if he shoots better or worse with a woman watching. Shouldn’t think he had any nerves.’ Turning again, she saw that he had noticed her.

“Do you mind me, Lord Saxenden? I’ll be very quiet.”

The peer plucked at his cap, which had special peaks before and behind.

“Well, well!” he said. “H’m!”

“That sounds as if you did. Shall I go?”

“No, no! That’s all right. Can’t touch a feather today, anyway. You’ll bring me luck.”

Dinny seated herself on her stick alongside the retriever, and began playing with its ears.

“That American chap has wiped my eye three times.”

“What bad taste!”

“He shoots at the most impossible birds, but, dash it, he hits ’em. All the birds I miss he gets on the horizon. Got the style of a poacher; lets everything go by, then gets a right and left about seventy yards behind him. Says he can’t see them when they sit on his foresight.”

“That’s funny,” said Dinny, with a little burst of justice.

“Don’t believe he’s missed today,” added Lord Saxenden, resentfully. “I asked him why he shot so darned well, and he said: ‘Why! I’m used to shoot for the pot, where I can’t afford to miss.’”

“The ‘beat’s’ beginning, my lord,” said the young keeper’s voice.

The retriever began to pant slightly. Lord Saxenden grasped a gun; the keeper held the other ready.

“Covey to the left, my lord,” Dinny heard a creaky whirring, and saw eight birds stringing towards the lane. Bang-bang… bang—bang!

“God bless my soul!” said Lord Saxenden: “What the deuce—!”

Dinny saw the same eight birds swoop over the hedge at the other end of the grass field.

The retriever uttered a little choked sound, panting horribly.

“The light,” she said, “must be terribly puzzling!”

“It’s not the light,” said Lord Saxenden, “it’s the liver!”

“Three birds coming straight, my lord.”

Bang!… Bang—bang! A bird jerked, crumpled, turned over and pitched four yards behind her. Something caught Dinny by the throat. That anything so alive should be so dead! Often as she had seen birds shot, she had never before had that feeling. The other two birds were crossing the far hedge; she watched them vanish, with a faint sigh. The retriever, with the dead bird in his mouth, came up to the keeper, who took it from him. Sitting on his haunches, the dog continued to gaze at the bird, with his tongue out. Dinny saw the tongue drip, and closed her eyes.

Lord Saxenden said something inaudibly.

Lord Saxenden said the same word more inaudibly, and, opening her eyes, Dinny saw him put up his gun.

“Hen pheasant, my lord!” warned the young keeper.

A hen pheasant passed over at a most reasonable height, as if aware that her time was not yet.

“H’m!” said Lord Saxenden, resting the butt on his bent knee.

“Covey to the right; too far, my lord!”

Several shots rang out, and beyond the hedge Dinny saw two birds only flying on, one of which was dropping feathers.

“That’s a dead bird,” said the keeper, and Dinny saw him shade his eyes, watching its flight. “Down!” he said; the dog panted, and looked up at him.

Shots rang out to the left.

“Damn!” said Lord Saxenden, “nothing comes my way.”

“Hare, my lord!” said the keeper, sharply. “Along the hedge!”

Lord Saxenden wheeled and raised his gun.

“Oh, no!” said Dinny, but her words were drowned by the report. The hare, struck behind, stopped short, then wriggled forward, crying pitifully.

“Fetch it, boy!” said the keeper.

Dinny put her hands over her ears and shut her eyes.

“Blast!” muttered Lord Saxenden. “Tailored!” Through her eyelids Dinny felt his frosty stare. When she opened her eyes the hare was lying dead beside the bird. It looked incredibly soft. Suddenly she rose, meaning to go, but sat down again. Until the beat was over she could go nowhere without interfering with the range of the shots. She closed her eyes again; and the shooting went on.

“That’s the lot, my lord.”

Lord Saxenden was handing over his gun, and three more birds lay beside the hare.

Rather ashamed of her new sensations, she rose, closed her shooting stick, and moved towards the stile. Regardless of the old convention, she crossed it and waited for him.

“Sorry I tailored that hare,” he said. “But I’ve been seeing spots all day. Do you ever see spots?”

“No. Stars once in a way. A hare’s crying is dreadful, isn’t it?”

“I agree—never liked it.”

“Once when we were having a picnic I saw a hare sitting up behind us like a dog—and the sun through its ears all pink. I’ve always liked hares since.”

“They’re not a sporting shot,” admitted Lord Saxenden; “personally I prefer ’em roast to jugged.”

Dinny stole a glance at him. He looked red and fairly satisfied.

‘Now’s my chance,’ she thought.

“Do you ever tell Americans that they won the war, Lord Saxenden?”