“Yes, thorough bass, and consecutive fifths and harmony and all that sort of thing, you know. He has a pupil, Macbeth Churchtimber, who has just written a thundering pretty waltz called ‘Eleanor Wynne.’”
“I thought Churchtimber,” I mildly suggested, “only played severe classical stuff.”
“Oh, yes,” replied my friend, “but he occasionally touches on a lighter theme, and has even written a comic song, called, ‘I lay beside a milestone with a sunflower on my brow.’”
“I must try it someday,” I said, “but how about your ghosts? Have you seen any lately?”
“There was one here a few minutes ago,” said Greenbracket, “a tall man in armour sitting in that corner over there.”
“What rubbish,” I said, quite crossly, “you dream things, or drink, or eat too much.”
“No I don’t,” said Greenbracket, “do you really mean to tell that you felt no sensation just now, no pricking or tingling feeling, or a chilly sensation down your back?”
“Certainly not, nothing of the kind,” I replied.
“Well, that is queer,” he said, “I know you don’t see these things, but I fancied you would have felt a strange presence in some way. I don’t know who the man in armour was. I have not seen him before, but my butler has, at all events. It was not Sir Roger de Wanklyn.”
“Who the ⸺ is he?” I queried.