Sir Humphrey clears his throat with the gravity of a man addressing a senior magistrate. "Your Honour," he announces, to the goat, to the field, to whatever administrative forces are still listening, "what judgment do you intend to render on this matter?" The goat regards him. It regards the ribbon reading SUPREME EXCELLENCE (PROVISIONAL). It regards him again. Then, with the unhurried deliberateness of something that has weighed all relevant considerations and found them satisfactory, it takes the ribbon in its mouth and deposits it at Sir Humphrey's feet. "It's awarded you the ribbon," says Reginald, pen suspended in a state of professional crisis. "I'm writing that down. I'm writing all of this down." The goat turns and walks away at a dignified pace. The hat remains perfectly level. It does not look back. Goodwife Thripp glances over from her third hat. "There," she says. "Sorted."