"You've—you've left some," said her husband in a shaking voice.
"I know," she said. "That's because I can't drink any more. I hate beer." She slipped off the table with a yawn. "And now I'm going to bed. Don't let him sit up, Anthony. The car's ordered for nine, and he's got to get a new tire on."
"Where are we going?" said Lyveden.
"First meet of the season," said George. "I forgot to tell you. Buck's Folly, the Bumbles think, but they're not certain. Deuce of a job for me, I tell you. Everybody drives anywhere and anyhow. You're backed into, you're always being called on to stop your engine, you're expected to be able to turn in a six-foot lane and to manoeuvre on a marsh as if it was wood pavement. To do any good, you want something between a gyroscope and a Tank. A car's useless."
"Stacks of people, obviously," said Anthony.
"Unfortunately, yes. Hardened as I am, I'm not looking forward to that side. I suppose you hunted—in the old days."
Anthony nodded.
"At Oxford, and sometimes with the Blackmore Vale. My uncle had a house in Dorset."
"Ah! We used to do a bit with the Pytchley before—before the War."
For a moment nobody spoke.