Little Chef, riding pillion on the pony's plump quarters, bristled at rabbits and occasionally leapt down to chase them through leaves still starched by the morning's frost. A sinking sun, like a day-glo grapefruit, caught the shaggy silver pelts of the traveller's joy and gingered the last leaves of the turkey oaks. In the distance Ricky could hear the mournful pa, pa, pa of the horn. The hunt must be on their last run of the day. He passed Daisy's cottage. A few pale pink roses still clambered up the walls. Fuchsias drooped in tubs, clashing with the scarlet nasturtiums which splayed across the path. The lights were on in the sitting room and the first flickerings of a fire in the grate. Gainsborough, perched on the wall washing his orange fur, crashed fatly through the cat door at the sight of Little Chef. Ricky suddenly thought how comforting it would be to follow Gainsborough in for tea, crumpets and fruitcake. But he didn't want to inflict his black gloom on poor Daisy who was unhappy enough over Perdita's defection.
