On the way they stopped to check the horses, who were dozing in nine inches of wood shavings. The Bull was looking out of his box and Mavis scampered up and licked him on the nose. Helen couldn’t help noticing how both The Bull and Kitchener whickered with pleasure to see Billy, nudging at his pockets for Polos, but both Belgravia and Mayfair and the younger novice horses flattened their ears and backed off as Rupert approached.

“Got to show them who’s boss,” said Rupert lightly, but, adding that it was getting chilly, he put an extra rug on Belgravia.

“Don’t forget the antifreeze,” said Billy, and promptly burst into song again. Then he said, “I’m going to make the most enormous play for Lavinia Greenslade tonight.”

“Wavish her in the whododendwons,” said Rupert. “Like hell you will. I’ll give you a tenner if you get to first base.”

The Pringles lived in a large Georgian house behind the Crittleden elm wood, looking over a lake and a cherry orchard whose white blossom was now tinged almond pink by the last rays of the sun.

Helen gave a gasp of pleasure.

“ ‘Loveliest of trees, the cherry now,’ ” she gushed expansively, “ ‘is hung with bloom along the bough.’ ”

“Hung with bloomers,” said Rupert, deliberately mishearing her. “Sounds just like Nanny. What were those bloody great things she insisted on wearing winter and summer?”

“Directoire knickers,” said Billy.

“That’s right. When she hung them on the line on washday we always thought they’d carry the house away like an air balloon.”

They both collapsed with laughter.

In order not to be a spoilsport, Helen tried to join in.

From the noise issuing from the front door the party was obviously well under way. As Helen changed out of mud-spattered boots into black high-heeled shoes, a handsome blonde, scent rising like incense from the cleavage of her splendid bosom, came out to welcome them.

“Rupert, darling, how lovely to see you.”

She gathered him into a braceleted embrace. Over his shoulder her sootily mascaraed eyes appraised the rest of them, affording Helen and Mavis about the same amount of enthusiasm.

That’s Grania Pringle, thought Helen. Close up she didn’t look very ladylike.

“Must you bring that creature in here?” she said to Billy.

“Love me, love my dog,” said Billy unrepentantly. “Sorry, Grania, but she howls the caravan down if I leave her behind.”

“Well, I don’t have any difficulty loving you, but I do draw the line at Mavis.”

“You haven’t met Helen Macaulay,” said Rupert, extracting himself from her clutches. “She comes from Florida, where tomatoes, she informs me, are their tertiary industry.”

“Tomatoes,” said Lady Pringle. “How extraordinary. Your mother gave me a marvelous recipe for tomato provençale last time I saw her, Rupe. We all stank of garlic for weeks afterwards, but it was simply delicious.” She turned back to Helen. “Are you a horsey gel?”

“No, thank God,” said Rupert, “she works in publishing. And she’s absolutely fed up with Humpty Hamilton and Ivor Braine and Billy gassing about bloodlines all afternoon. Have you invited any intellectuals for her to talk to?”

“Only Malise Gordon,” said Grania. “He writes books, frightfully clever chap, you must meet him. But he’s rather hemmed in by Lavinia Greenslade’s parents, who are twying to persuade him to take Lavinia to Wome.”

“Must be mad,” said Rupert. “She couldn’t even stay on the wocking horse at Hawwods.”

“Shut up,” said Billy, grinning.

“Billy’s rather a fan of Lavinia’s,” explained Rupert. “He’s longing to wape her.”

“And Lavinia’s Daddy will be so cwoss, he’ll come and wun me over in his Wolls-Woyce,” said Billy.

Grania screamed with laughter. She was already beginning to get seriously on Helen’s nerves.

“You boys are awful. Come and have a drink.”

“If Greenslade mère and père are bending Malise’s ear, that means Lavinia must be unchaperoned for a second and I’m off,” said Billy, and vanished into the crowd in the next room.

“I’m afraid I’ve hidden the whisky, Rupert,” said Grania. “You know what pigs this lot are, but you’ll find some in the decanter in the library and there’s another bottle in the kitchen cupboard.”

Whisky, however, was only for Rupert. Helen had to make do with a glass of very indifferent sparkling wine. The next moment Grania had swept her away from Rupert and thrust her into a loudly arguing group consisting of several show jumpers and Joanna Battie.

“Now then, Joanna,” said Grania briskly, “you can’t monopolize all these delicious chaps. This is Helen Macaulay, boys; she’s frightfully clever and works for a publisher in London. Now I know all you show jumpers are writing your autobiographies, so why don’t you get her to publish yours? Come along, Rupert, my sister’s dying to meet you.”

And off she swept, leaving Helen scarlet with embarrassment. “Hi, again,” she mumbled to Joanna. “Are you all writing books?” she asked the ring of men.

“Too busy keeping them,” said a man with brushed-forward hair and a pale, pinched, disapproving face who was drinking tomato juice. “Joanna’s the writer round here, aren’t you, Joe? Except she gets it all wrong.”

“Never met a journalist who got anything right,” grumbled Humpty Hamilton. “Last week the Telegraph said Porky Boy was out of Sally in Our Alley. I mean, everyone knows Windsor Lass was his dam.”

“Oh, shut up, Humpty,” snapped the man with brushed-forward hair. “You told us that yesterday.”

“You should come off the wagon, Driffield,” said Humpty. “It’s making you very bad-tempered.”

“I’ve lost twelve pounds, which is more than I can say for you, Humpty. You look five months gone in that sweater.”

“How much d’you reckon Rupert weighs?” said Ivor Braine, who was gazing at Helen with his mouth open.

“Helen should know,” said Joanna acidly.

“About twelve stone, I should think,” said Humpty.

“And eleven stone of that is pieces of paper with girls’ phone numbers on,” said Joanna.

Helen flushed. She hated Joanna, and her flat little voice, and hair drawn back from her forehead. She was more deadpan even than the show jumpers.

“How long have you been reducing for?” she asked Driffield.

“About a month.”

“You must have terrific control.”

“No!” he cut right across her, “that’s wrong, Humpty, he went clear.”

“No, he didn’t, he had four faults, and he was at least a quarter of a second slower than Rupert against the clock.”

Helen gritted her teeth. Across the room, as the horsey chat ebbed and flowed endlessly round her, she could see Rupert talking to Dick Brandon, hemmed in by women, all braying like Grania. Every few minutes, she noticed, Grania fed in another one and saw to it that Rupert’s glass of whisky was constantly topped up. Every so often he looked across and mouthed “All right?” to Helen and pride made her nod back.

She was certain Grania had deliberately thrust her into a group of small men. She topped all of them in her high heels. Separated from Rupert, she wanted him to be able to see her as the center of attention, being madly chatted up, but among this lot she felt about as attractive as a spayed Great Dane among a lot of Jack Russells. She bent her legs slightly.

Now they were discussing who’d bought what horses during the winter and which looked as though they were going to be the most promising novices. Hans Schmidt, wearing slightly too fitted and too bright blue a blazer, came up, clicked his heels, and kissed Helen’s hand.

“Ha, Mees Helen of Troy,” he said.

Helen turned to him gratefully, but next minute he was caught up with the others, discussing some potentially unbeatable Hanoverian mare.

Over in the corner Billy was hanging over the back of an armchair shared by Mavis and Lavinia Greenslade. After her dunking in the water she’d rewashed and curled her hair. A belted peacock blue dress showed off her tiny waist. Her small hand rested on Mavis’s head. Billy and she’ll have very curly-haired children, thought Helen. She wished Rupert would look after her like that. She must pull herself together and try and be more extrovert.

The group had moved on to discussing the best routes to take to the next show, which was in the West Country.

“The A40’s much quicker,” said Humpty Hamilton.

Suddenly they were joined by an amazing woman of about sixty. Squat, with a discernible black mustache on her upper lip, she was wearing a hairnet, a red flannel nightgown, bedroom slippers, and looked, thought Helen, not unlike President Nixon in drag.

“Hello, boys,” she said in her deep voice. “If we don’t get something to eat soon, you’ll have to carry me home.” She was just about to move on when she caught sight of Helen, gave her the most enthusiastic eye-meet she’d received all evening, and joined the group.

“Who’s that?” whispered Helen, holding out her glass to a passing waitress.

“Monica Carlton,” whispered Humpty. “Law unto herself, breeds Welsh cobs, always comes to parties in her nightgown, then can get absolutely plastered and doesn’t have the hassle of undressing when she gets back to her caravan.”

“While that waitress is here, she might as well fill me up too,” said Miss Carlton, thrusting her glass at Humpty. “You look familiar,” she added to Joanna Battie.

“We met at Olympia last Christmas,” said Joanna. “I write for the Chronicle.”

“Dreadful rag,” boomed Miss Carlton, retrieving her full glass. “Still, it comes in useful for wiping up puppies’ widdle.”