I told her it was the end. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. But when it came to broaching them, it proved to be much more difficult than she had supposed. “I would have given up anything to see you your old self again—as you are this evening. At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. ‘But it is idiot. ’ What would you tell her?” “If she asked advice, I should say she wasn’t fit to do anything of the sort.
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