At least we have verified that it was not the life of Brahms that I set fire to the pages from also, out on the beach.
Unless as I have suggested somebody in this house had owned two lives of Brahms, both printed on cheap paper and both ruined by dampness.
Or two people had owned them, which is perhaps more likely.
Perhaps two people who were not particularly friendly with each other, in fact. though both of whom were interested in Brahms.
Perhaps one of those was the painter. Well, and the other the person in the window, why not?
Perhaps the painter, being a landscape painter, did not wish to paint the other person at all, actually. But perhaps the other person insisted upon looking out of the window while the painter was at work.
Very possibly this could have been what made them angry with each other to begin with.