He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. Perhaps he had lost his loved ones and was wandering over the world seeking forgetfulness. But she must stop him getting away. 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. ‘I was just looking the place over when I heard you calling out. As though it was indelicate—it’s just a sort of shyness. . . It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume.
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