They continued for a few seconds apparently just
outside the dining-room window. Then they stopped, and the noise
of the bumping electric cars resumed its sway over the ear.
'That's Oliver!' said Mr Brindley, looking at his watch. 'He must
have come from Manchester in an hour and a half. He's a terror.'
'Glass! Quick!' Mrs Brindley exclaimed. She sprang to the
sideboard, and seized a tumbler, which Mr Brindley filled from a
second bottle of Bass. When the door of the room opened she was
standing close to it, laughing, with the full, frothing glass in
her hand.
A tall, thin man, rather younger than Mr Brindley and his wife,
entered. He wore a long dust-coat and leggings, and he carried a
motorist's cap in a great hand. No one spoke; but little puffs of
laughter escaped all Mrs Brindley's efforts to imprison her mirth.
Then the visitor took the glass with a magnificent broad smile,
and said, in a rich and heavy Midland voice--
'Here's to moy wife's husband!'
And drained the nectar.
'Feel better now, don't you?' Mrs Brindley inquired.
'Aye, Mrs Bob, I do!' was the reply. 'How do, Bob?'
'How do?' responded my host laconically. And then with gravity:
'Mr Loring--Mr Oliver Colclough--thinks he knows something about
music.'
'Glad to meet you, sir,' said Mr Colclough, shaking hands with me.
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