Mr Bickersdyke, except for a slight deepening of the colour of his complexion, gave no sign of having seen them. He puffed away at his cigar, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
'An unpleasant task lies before us,' began Psmith in a low, sorrowful voice, 'and it must not be shirked. Have I your ear, Mr Bickersdyke?'
Addressed thus directly, the manager allowed his gaze to wander from the ceiling. He eyed Psmith for a moment like an elderly basilisk, then looked back at the ceiling again.
'I shall speak to you tomorrow,' he said.
Psmith heaved a heavy sigh.
'You will not see us tomorrow,' he said, pushing the brandy a little nearer.
Mr Bickersdyke's eyes left the ceiling once more.
'What do you mean?' he said.
'Drink this,' urged Psmith sympathetically, holding out the glass. 'Be brave,' he went on rapidly. 'Time softens the harshest blows. Shocks stun us for the moment, but we recover. Little by little we come to ourselves again. Life, which we had thought could hold no more pleasure for us, gradually shows itself not wholly grey.'
Mr Bickersdyke seemed about to make an observation at this point, but Psmith, with a wave of the hand, hurried on.