Mrs Hagen, negotiating the grass-verge, drives out past them without a glance. Hagen’s man is holding a tall bay mare by a snaffle. Hagen, leaning his chest against a steel gate, watches the slender sooty stallion descending from its horsebox, on powerful springs, restrained by an insect-thin manager. The too-heavy clay of Hagen’s face is sagging as the day lengthens. His eyes are fixed in a spiritless nicotine-yellow dullness. Estridge, coming beside him, hands him the photograph without a word, casually as a cigarette. Then stands watching the flashing ballet of the two horses, as they touch noses and flare tails, like great fish, like yachts. Hagen, absorbing the photograph, massages his brow between thumb and forefinger, as if resting. The stallion whinnies, a squealing barrel-echoing snigger, as he feels his power swell, glitteringly, in the odours of the mare. Hagen is contemplating the photograph, which seems very satisfactory, as if it were a just-completed jigsaw.
