hine, not the joy of life--no, merely Mary Ann.

Noble! high-minded! No, let Peter think that, let posterity think
that. But he could not cozen himself thus! He had fallen--horribly,
vulgarly. How absurd of him to set himself up as a saint, a martyr, an
idealist! He could not divide himself into two compartments like that
and pretend that only one counted in his character. Who was he, to
talk of dying for art? No, he was but an everyday man. He wanted Mary
Ann--yes, he might as well admit that to himself now. It was no use
hum-bugging himself any longer. Why should he give her up? She was
his discovery, his treasure-trove, his property.

And if he could stoop to her, why should he not stoop to popular work,
to devilling, to anything that would rid him of these sordid cares?
Bah! away with all pretences?

Was not this shamefaced pawning as vulgar, as wounding to the artist's
soul, as the turning out of tawdry melodies?

Yes, he would escape from Mrs. Leadbatter and her Rosie; he would write
to that popular composer--he had noticed his letter lying on the
mantel-piece the other day--and accept the fifty pounds, and whatever
he did he could do anonymously, so that Peter wouldn't know, after all;
he would escape from this wretched den and take a flat far away,
somewhere where nobody knew him, and there he would sit and work, with
Mary Ann for his housekeeper. Poor Mary Ann! How glad she would be
when he told her! The tears came into his eyes as he thought of her
naive delight. He would rescue her from this horrid, monotonous
slavery, and--happy thought--he would have her to give lessons to
instead of Rosie.

Yes, he would refine her; prune away all that reminded him of her wild
growth, so that it might no longer humiliate him to think to what a
companion he had sunk. How happy they would be! Of course the world
would censure him if it knew, but the world was stupid and prosaic, and
measured all things by its coarse rule of thumb. It was the best thing
that could happen to Mary Ann--the best thing in the world. And then
the world _wouldn't_ know.

"Sw--eet," went the canary. "Sw--eet."

This time the joy of the bird penetrated to his own soul--the joy of
life, the joy of the sunshine. He rang the bell violently, as though
he were sounding a clarion of defiance, the trumpet of youth.

Mary Ann knocked at the door, came in, and began to draw on her gloves.

He was in a mad mood--the incongruity s