"Oh, shut up."
To-morrow he would go down to Lewes and have a go at that jumping stable. He might be lame but he could still ride anything on four legs. They might be interested in someone who could ride at ten stone and didn't mind risking his neck.
"Risk your neck when you might be living in clover?"
"If it was clover I wanted I could have had it long ago."
"Ah, but not clover with horses in it."
"Shut up. You're wasting your time."
He began to undress, as if movement might put an end to the voice. Yes: he would go down to Lewes. It was a little too near his calf country, but no one would recognise him after those six years. It wouldn't really matter, of course, if they did; but he didn't want to go backwards.
"You could always say: Sorry, my name is Ashby," mocked the voice.
"Will you be quiet!"
As he hung his jacket over the back of the chair he thought about that young Ashby who had bowed out. With everything in the world to live for he had gone and thrown himself off a cliff. It didn't make sense. Did parents matter all that much?