We talk of Pegasus — and of how he had died, quietly one night in his stall, for no reason that anyone could ever find. ‘Snake, perhaps,’ says my father. ‘Yellow mambas are deadly.’ It may have been a mamba, or it may not have been. However, or whatever it was, Pegasus — so expectantly christened so long ago — is gone now, yielding his ethereal wings to the realization of wood and steel ones that fly as high and higher, but, for all that, are never so buoyant or capable of bearing quite such cargoes of hope.
