Sir Humphrey wheels at the field's edge with the confident arc of a man who has completed something satisfactory and is returning for acknowledgment. He has not yet updated his expression to reflect what happened. The forty-three spectators drift back from the pie stall. "Right," says Humphrey, centering his lance. "Good first pass." Reginald makes a noise that is not quite a word. The horse sets off again. The goat has not moved. The distance closes in the same optimistic configuration as before. Goodwife Thripp stops knitting. This is noticed by everyone present, as it has not happened in living memory. At five feet, the horse swerves. Same direction. Same crisp angle of professional objection. Humphrey exits the field a second time, lance still extended. Reginald adds a second line to his ledger. Then a bracket. Then, after some thought, a second question mark.