Horsham. Not at this time of night. I'll post it.
Cantelupe. I'll post it as I go.
He seeks comfort again in the piano and this time starts to play, with one finger and some hesitation, the first bars of a Bach fugue, Horsham's pen-nib is disappointing him and the letter is not easy to phrase.
Horsham. But I hate coming to immediate decisions. The administrative part of my brain always tires after half an hour. Does yours, Charles?
Cantelupe. What do you think Trebell will do now?
Horsham. [A little grimly.] Punish us all he can.
On reaching the second voice in the fugue Cantelupe's virtuosity breaks down.
Cantelupe. All that ability turned to destructiveness ... what a pity! That's the paradox of human activities....
Suddenly Horsham looks up and his face is lighted with a seraphic smile.
Horsham. Charles ... I wish we could do without Blackborough.