"I hear you've been riding horses in America," he said.
"Only western ones," Brat said. "Working horses."
"Oh, these work," Gregg said, inclining his head towards the boxes. Don't be in any doubt about it, the tone said. It was as if he had understood Brat's distrust of the spit and polish. His eyes went past Brat to Eleanor standing behind and he said: "Have you seen what's in the saddle room, Miss Eleanor?"
From the gloom of the saddle room there materialised as if in answer to his question the figure of a small boy. He materialised rather reluctantly as if uncertain of his welcome. In spite of a change of costume Brat recognised him as the rider of the stone lion at the gates of Clare. His present apparel, though less startling, was hardly more orthodox than his leopard-skin outfit. He was wearing a striped football jersey that clung to his tadpole body, a pair of jodhpurs so large that they hung in a fold above each skinny knee, a steeple-chasing jockey cap with the crash-lining showing at the back, and a pair of grubby red moccasins.
"Tony!" said Eleanor. "Tony, what are you doing here?"
"I've come for my ride," said Tony, his eyes darting to and fro among the group like lizards.
"But this isn't the day for your ride."
"Isn't it, Eleanor? I thought it was."
"You know quite well that you don't ride on a Tuesday."
"I thought this was Wednesday."