they
met by appointment at the club.

"I've got hold of a splendid book," said the popular composer. "Awfully
clever; jolly original. Bound to go--from the French, you know. Haven't
had time to set to work on it--old engagement to run over to Monte Carlo
for a few days--but I'll leave you the book; you might care to look over
it. And--I say--if any catchy tunes suggest themselves as you go along,
you might just jot them down, you know. Not worth while losing an idea;
eh, my boy! Ha! ha! ha! Well, good-bye. See you again when I come
back; don't suppose I shall be away more than a month. Good-bye!" And,
having shaken Lancelot's hand with tremendous cordiality, the popular
composer rushed downstairs and into a hansom.

Lancelot walked home with the libretto and the five five-pound notes. He
asked for Mrs. Leadbatter, and gave her a week's notice. He wanted to
drop Rosie immediately, on the plea of pressure of work, but her mother
received the suggestion with ill-grace, and said that Rosie should come
up and practise on her own piano all the same, so he yielded to the
complexities of the situation, and found hope a wonderful sweetener of
suffering. Despite Rosie and her giggling, and Mrs. Leadbatter and her
best cap and her asthma, the week went by almost cheerfully. He worked
regularly at the comic opera, nearly as happy as the canary which sang
all day long, and, though scarcely a word more passed between him and
Mary Ann, their eyes met ever and anon in the consciousness of a sweet
secret.

It was already Friday afternoon. He gathered together his few personal
belongings--his books, his manuscripts, _opera_ innumerable. There was
room in his portmanteau for everything--now he had no clothes. On the
Monday the long nightmare would be over. He would go down to some
obscure seaside nook and live very quietly for a few weeks, and gain
strength and calm in the soft spring airs, and watch hand-in-hand with
Mary Ann the rippling scarlet trail of the setting sun fade across the
green waters. Life, no doubt, would be hard enough still. Struggles and
trials enough were yet before him, but he would not think of that
now--enough that for a month or two there would be bread and cheese and
kisses. And then, in the midst of a tender reverie, with his hand on the
lid of his portmanteau, he was awakened by ominous sounds of objurgation
from the kitchen.

His heart stood still. He went down a few stairs and liste