Sir Humphrey straightens to his full height — considerable, accounting for the plume — clears his throat with the gravity of a man about to deliver something he has rehearsed since breakfast, and produces from somewhere in the vicinity of his breastplate a small, folded, slightly damp piece of parchment. "I have prepared," he announces, "some remarks." Reginald closes his eyes. He opens them again. Sir Humphrey is still there, unfolding the parchment with ceremonious care. "The man who arrives first," Humphrey begins, "must wait for everyone else. He arrives and finds: nothing. He is, in essence, too early. I have not done that. The man who arrives in the middle has no drama. He is simply present, which is the least interesting thing a man can be." He straightens further, which should not be physically possible. "I have arrived last. I am the culmination. The finale. The tournament, Reginald, has been building to this moment." Reginald looks at a document. Then at Humphrey. Then at the goat, which has wandered close and appears to be listening with genuine judicial interest. Knitting needles click, somewhere nearby.