As a consequence, he was often away from the office;
and whenever I thought of him in those days, I used to wonder how he
managed to keep his employment.
One foggy evening in January, about eight o'clock, I happened to be
walking with Barber in the West End. We passed before a concert hall,
brilliantly lighted, with a great crowd of people gathered about the
doors, and I read on a poster that a concert of classical music was
forward at which certain renowned artists were to appear. I really
cannot give any sort of reason why I took it into my head to go in. I am
rather fond of music, even of the kind which requires a distinct
intellectual effort; but I was not anxious to hear music that night, and
in any case, Barber was about the last man in the world I should have
chosen to hear it with. When I proposed that we should take tickets, he
strongly objected.
"Just look me over," he said. "I ain't done anything to you that you
want to take my life, have I? I know the kind of merry-go-round that
goes on in there, and I'm not having any."
I suppose it was his opposition which made me stick to the project, for
I could not genuinely have cared very much, and there was nothing to be
gained by dragging Barber to a concert against his will. Finally, seeing
I was determined, he yielded, though most ungraciously.
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