Well, of course, there is more to Mr B than just being an intermittent lunatic. Yes. Yes, of course there is. So much much more. Or less. (Hic) Yes. A comparatively benign lunatic. That. Yes. Or not a particularly malign one at least. Hyuch! Which is always something, isn’t it? Indeed. He even had at least one alleged friend who did not think him mad at all. No. Mind you, I believe that one was a professional astrologer … Indeed … And one would, I think, almost be a little surprised at any admirer of the inestimable Mr B. who did not have something of a weakness for astrology, no? … (Hmm. (Hic.)) … But it makes no very great claim nonetheless on the powers of one’s sensitivity, does it, to understand why somebody might wish to believe that a beloved brother, hic, on dying, was seen to rise and go up straight through the ceiling, clapping his knees – er, no, sorry, no – clapping his hands for joy all the while, and leaving the fabric of the building miraculously undamaged thereby. No? (Hic.) Er. (Hic.) No. For who, if given the choice – (which, alas, my darling, they are not, never, are they?) – but who would not prefer to believe this trembly, this trebly fantasticated nonsense, than have to accept that the beloved poison in question – er, person – not necessarily called Macpherson; no – was simply dead and gone – which he obviously was. Eh? (Well… do you believe his brother actually did that?) … Eh? ...