The herald turns with the air of a man being slowly digested by administration. "The winner," he says, consulting a fresh layer of parchment, "is—" He shuffles. He consults another layer. "Gone." He gestures toward the far end of the field, where a modest trophy sits on an overturned bucket, attended by no one. "He collected his laurels, gave a brief speech on the virtues of punctuality" — the herald makes significant eye contact — "and departed approximately forty minutes ago." Humphrey surveys the empty space where a man of glory recently stood. "Then I shall wait," he announces, "for his return." "He lives in Gloucester," says the herald. "I have," says Sir Humphrey Bumfrey, with the genuine serenity of a man for whom lateness has never once been a deterrent, "considerable patience." Goodwife Thripp, who has not stopped knitting, makes a sound that is not quite a laugh but which occupies the same postcode.