‘I want to play the top part because it’s easiest,’ Mr Colclough grumbled.

’How often have I told you the top part is never easiest?  Who do you suppose is going to keep this symphony together—­you or me?’

‘Sorry I spoke.’

They arranged themselves on the bench, and Mr Brindley turned up the lower corners of every alternate leaf of the music.

‘Now,’ said he.  ‘Ready?’

‘Let her zip,’ said Mr Colclough.

They began to play.  And then the door opened, and a servant, whose white apron was starched as stiff as cardboard, came in carrying a tray of coffee and unholy liqueurs, which she deposited with a rattle on a small table near the hostess.

‘Curse!’ muttered Mr Brindley, and stopped.

‘Life’s very complex, ain’t it, Bob?’ Mr Colclough murmured.

‘Aye, lad.’  The host glanced round to make sure that the rattling servant had entirely gone.  ‘Now start again.’

‘Wait a minute, wait a minute!’ cried Mrs Brindley excitedly.  ’I’m just pouring out Mr Loring’s coffee.  There!’ As she handed me the cup she whispered, ’We daren’t talk.  It’s more than our place is worth.’

The performance of the symphony proceeded.  To me, who am not a performer, it sounded excessively brilliant and incomprehensible.  Mr Colclough stretched his right hand to turn over the page, and fumbled it.  Another stoppage.

‘Damn you, Ol!’ Mr Brindley exploded.  ’I wish you wouldn’t make yourself so confoundedly busy.  Leave the turning to me.  It takes a great artist to turn over, and you’re only a blooming chauffeur.  We’ll begin again.’

‘Sackcloth!’ Mr Colclough whispered.

I could not estimate the length of the symphony; but my impression was one of extreme length.  Halfway through it the players both took their coats off.  There was no other surcease.

‘What dost think of it, Bob?’ asked Mr Colclough in the weird silence that reigned after they had finished.  They were standing up and putting on their coats and wiping their faces.

‘I think what I thought before,’ said Mr Brindley.  ’It’s childish.’

‘It isn’t childish,’ the other protested.  ’It’s ugly, but it isn’t childish.’

‘It’s childishly clever,’ Mr Brindley modified his description.  He did not ask my opinion.

‘Coffee’s cold,’ said Mrs Brindley.

’I don’t want any coffee.  Give me some Chartreuse, please.  Have a drop o’ green, Ol?’

’A split soda ’ud be more in my line.  Besides, I’m just going to have my supper.  Never mind, I’ll have a drop, missis, and chance it.  I’ve never tried Chartreuse as an appetizer.’

At this point commenced a sanguinary conflict of wills to settle whether or not I also should indulge in green Chartreuse.  I was defeated.  Besides the Chartreuse, I accepted a cigar.  Never before or since have I been such a buck.

‘I must hook it,’ said Mr Colclough, picking up his dust-coat.