Now Falbe's inexorable voice counted for him, until it was lost in inextinguishable laughter.
"Go on, go on!" he shouted.

"I thought it was Bach, and it is clearly Strauss's Don Quixote." Michael, flushed and determined, with grave, set mouth, ploughed his way through amazing dissonances, and at the end joined Falbe's laughter.
"Oh dear," he said.

"Very funny.

But don't laugh so at me, Hermann." Falbe dried his eyes.
"And what was it ?" he said.

"I declare it was the fourth fugue.