If Jeremy was a fine rider, and his fast as the wind, thin-legged Arabian horse obeyed him like a faithful dog, his wife was hardly an able horsewoman.
As a child, when her father still had some wealth, Vivian had received riding lessons and had learnt to be confident in the saddle. But since she was eight years old, she had never been on a horse's back and was now filled with shyness and a slight fear of the swift running of her rather docile but frisky horse. Despite the fact that Vivian was wearing a comfortable riding dress and the high leather boots with a large heel, she felt as if she had never had a single riding lesson. She frantically held the reins in her hands and breathed rapidly, as if she was the one carrying the horse, not the other way round.
The great forest away from London was full of game, and this was where the London hunters were rushing to. The sunlight was drowned in the thick green crowns of tall, mighty trees, so it was quite dark.
The darkness frightened Vivian, made her feel like a bug lost in a vast forest full of rage and death. For that was how she perceived hunting, which her own cousin, as well as her husband, regarded only as a pleasure. Vivian did not want to be here, riding a horse along a barely discernible bushy path, waiting for her husband to find his prey.
Two trained hunting dogs – young, full of vigour and energy greyhounds – were running with the speed of the wind between the trees in front of their owners' horses in pursuit of a rather large red fox. The poor hunted animal began to lose strength, and soon a loud shot rang through the air, causing Vivian to shriek in surprise.
– What a catch! Marcus! Aurelius! You have done well, my friends!" Jeremy laughed happily and started his horse at a jog.
Vivian stopped her horse and looked regretfully at where her husband was pointing his horse: not far away from them, a fox lay a bright spot on the dark, dry ground. Blood was pouring from the side of the dead animal. Jeremy had killed the poor creature with a single shot, which, in itself, was an act of mercy: the victim had died painlessly. But this fact by no means comforted the girl who hated hunting.
Tears came to Vivian's eyes, but she hastily brushed them away with her leather glove: she did not want Jeremy to think her sentimental. The girl had no desire to look at the dead fox more closely, and, from a distance, watched silently as her husband rejoiced in his bloody success.