This was not surprising. I did not want Mrs Colclough to read the journalistic obituary until she had given me her own obituary of Fuge.
'It must be somewhere about,' I said; and to Mrs Colclough: 'I suppose you knew him pretty well?'
'Oh, bless you, no! I only met him once.'
'At Ilam?'
'Yes. What are you going to do, Oliver?'
Her husband was opening the piano.
'Bob and I are just going to have another smack at that Brahms.'
'You don't expect us to listen, do you?'
'I expect you to do what pleases you, missis,' said he. 'I should be a bigger fool than I am if I expected anything else.' Then he smiled at me. 'No! Just go on talking. Ol and I'll drown you easy enough. Quite short! Back in five minutes.'
The two men placed each his wine-glass on the space on the piano designed for a candlestick, lighted cigars, and sat down to play.