He walked out of the almost deserted dressing-room and went to find Chevron. The serious business of the day was over and there was an air of relaxation. In the shade of the trees competitors who had taken part in the sober events were now walking ponies and coffeehousing while they waited for the bending race. Alone for the moment, on a solid dun pony, was Peggy Gates, her eyes roving over the crowd in search of someone. She looked tired and discouraged. As Brat came level with her he paused and said:
"That was very bad luck."
"Oh, hullo, Mr. Ashby! What was?"
"The big drum."
"Oh, that!" she said, and smiled at him. "Oh, that was just one of those things."
She sounded quite philosophical about it, and yet Brat could have sworn that when he came up she had tears in her eyes.
"Good luck to the race," she said.
Brat thanked her and was moving away when she said: "Mr. Ashby, have I done anything to offend Simon, do you know?"
Brat said no, not that he knew.
"Oh. It's just that he seems to be avoiding me lately, and I'm not aware of having done anything-anything that he wouldn't — "