Sir Humphrey considers his options. The goat regards him with the serene certainty of a creature that has never once doubted its own jurisdiction. After a moment of profound strategic thought, he dismounts, retrieves from his saddlebag a slightly squashed apple — intended for the horse, who notes this with quiet resentment — and extends it toward the goat with the careful optimism of a man attempting diplomacy for the first time. The goat looks at the apple. It looks at Humphrey. It chews the last of the Form Seven-C in a meditative fashion, then accepts the apple as well. And the form — or what remains of it — disappears entirely, along with a meaningful portion of Humphrey's gauntlet. Reginald makes a sound like a man swallowing an entire objection whole. "The form," Humphrey says, examining the gauntlet, "may require some restoration." Goodwife Thripp's needles accelerate.