We three exactly filled the sofa. I have often sat between two women, but never with such calm, unreserved, unapprehensive comfortableness as I experienced between Mrs Colclough and Mrs Brindley. It was just as if I had known them for years.
‘You’ll make a mess of that, Ol,’ said Mr Brindley.
The other two men were at some distance, in front of a table, on which were two champagne bottles and five glasses, and a plate of cakes. ‘Well,’ I said to myself, ‘I’m not going to have any champagne, anyhow. Mercurey! Green Chartreuse! Irish whisky! And then champagne! And a morning’s hard work tomorrow! No!’
Plop! A cork flew up and bounced against the ceiling.
Mr Colclough carefully emptied the bottle into the glasses, of which Mr Brindley seized two and advanced with one in either hand for the women. It was the host who offered a glass to me.
‘No, thanks very much, I really can’t,’ I said in a very firm tone.
My tone was so firm that it startled them. They glanced at each other with alarmed eyes, like simple people confronted by an inexplicable phenomenon. ‘But look here, mister!’ said Mr Colclough, pained, ‘we’ve got this out specially for you. You don’t suppose this is our usual tipple, do you?’
I yielded. I could do no less than sacrifice myself to their enchanting instinctive kindness of heart. ‘I shall be dead tomorrow,’ I said to myself; ‘but I shall have lived tonight.’ They were relieved, but I saw that I had given them a shock from which they could not instantaneously recover. Therefore I began with a long pull, to reassure them.
‘Mrs Brindley has been telling me that Simon Fuge is dead,’ said Mrs Colclough brightly, as though Mrs Brindley had been telling her that the price of mutton had gone down.
I perceived that those two had been talking over Simon Fuge, after their fashion.
‘Oh yes,’ I responded.
‘Have you got that newspaper in your pocket, Mr Loring?’ asked Mrs Brindley.
I had.
‘No,’ I said, feeling in my pockets; ‘I must have left it at your house.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘that’s strange. I looked for it to show it to Mrs Colclough, but I couldn’t see it.’
This was not surprising. I did not want Mrs Colclough to read the journalistic obituary until she had given me her own obituary of Fuge.
‘It must be somewhere about,’ I said; and to Mrs Colclough: ‘I suppose you knew him pretty well?’
‘Oh, bless you, no! I only met him once.’
‘At Ilam?’
‘Yes. What are you going to do, Oliver?’
Her husband was opening the piano.
‘Bob and I are just going to have another smack at that Brahms.’
‘You don’t expect us to listen, do you?’
‘I expect you to do what pleases you, missis,’ said he. ‘I should be a bigger fool than I am if I expected anything else.’ Then he smiled at me. ‘No! Just go on talking. Ol and I’ll drown you easy enough. Quite short! Back in five minutes.’
The two men placed each his wine-glass on the space on the piano designed for a candlestick, lighted cigars, and sat down to play.
‘Yes,’ Mrs Colclough resumed, in a lower, more confidential tone, to the accompaniment of the music. ‘You see, there was a whole party of us there, and Mr Fuge was staying at the hotel, and of course he knew several of us.’
‘And he took you out in a boat?’
‘Me and Annie? Yes. Just as it was getting dusk he came up to us and asked us if we’d go for a row. Eh, I can hear him asking us now! I asked him if he could row, and he was quite angry. So we went, to quieten him.’ She paused, and then laughed.
‘Sally!’ Mrs Brindley protested. ‘You know he’s dead!’
‘Yes.’ She admitted the rightness of the protest. ‘But I can’t help it. I was just thinking how he got his feet wet in pushing the boat off.’ She laughed again. ‘When we were safely off, someone came down to the shore and shouted to Mr Fuge to bring the boat back. You know his quick way of talking.’ (Here she began to imitate Fuge.) ‘“I’ve quarrelled with the man this boat belongs to. Awful feud! Fact is, I’m in a hostile country here!” And a lot more like that. It seemed he had quarrelled with everybody in Ilam. He wasn’t sure if the landlord of the hotel would let him sleep there again. He told us all about all his quarrels, until he dropped one of the oars. I shall never forget how funny he looked in the moonlight when he dropped the oar. “There, that’s your fault!” he said. “You make me talk too much about myself, and I get excited.” He kept striking matches to look for the oar, and turning the boat round and round with the other oar. “Last match!” he said. “We shall never see land tonight.” Then he found the oar again. He considered we were saved. Then he began to tell us about his aunt. “You know I’d no business to be here. I came down from London for my aunt’s funeral, and here I am in a boat at night with two pretty girls!” He said the funeral had taught him one thing, and that was that black neckties were the only possible sort of necktie. He said the greatest worry of his life had always been neckties; but he wouldn’t have to worry any more, and so his aunt hadn’t died for nothing. I assure you he kept on talking about neckties. I assure you, Mr Loring, I went to sleep—at least I dozed—and when I woke up he was still talking about neckties. But then his feet began to get cold. I suppose it was because they were wet. The way he grumbled about his feet being cold! I remember he turned his coat collar up. He wanted to get on shore and walk, but he’d taken us a long way up the lake by that time, and he saw we were absolutely lost. So he put the oars in the boat and stood up and stamped his feet. It might have upset the boat.’
‘How did it end?’ I inquired.
