"That was why he went and buried himself for months in Cornwall—to finish it," she explained.
"I knew nothing about it. Aie! aie!" he sighed. "It is to you, and no longer to me, that he tells things."
"You silly, jealous old dear!" she laughed. "He had to account for deserting me all the summer. But as to what it's all about, I'm as ignorant as you are. I've not heard a note of it. Sometimes Geoff is like that, you know. If he's dead certain sure of himself, he won't have any criticism or opinions while the work's in progress. It's only when he's doubtful that he brings one in. And the doubtful things are never anything like the certain ones. You must have noticed it."
"That is true," said Angelo Fardetti, taking up knife and fork again. "He was like that since he was a boy."
"It is going to be given on Saturday fortnight. He'll conduct himself. They've got a splendid programme to send him off. Lembrich's going to play, and Carli's going to sing—just for his sake. Isn't it gorgeous?"
"It is grand. But what does Geoffrey say about it? Come, come, after all he is not the sphinx." He drummed his fingers impatiently on the table.
"Would you really like to know?"
"I am waiting."
"He says it's going to knock 'em!" she laughed.
"Knock 'em?"