Nathaniel Drinkwater did not see the carriage. He was standing disconsolate and preoccupied outside the bow windows of the dress-shop as the coach entered Petersfield from the direction of Portsmouth. The coachman was whipping up his horses as he approached the Red Lion.

Drinkwater was suddenly aware of the jingle and creak of harness, the stink of horse-sweat, then a spinning of wheels, a glimpse of armorial bearings and shower of filth as the hurrying carriage lurched through a puddle at his feet. For a second he stared outraged at his plum coloured coat and ruined breeches before giving vent to his feelings.