orgotten her father's
name--if she ever had any. I must do her the justice, though, to say she
answers to the name of Mary Ann in every sense of the phrase."

"She didn't seem at all bad-looking, any way," said Peter.

"Every man to his taste!" growled Lancelot. "She's as _platt_ and
uninteresting as a wooden sabot."

"There's many a pretty foot in a sabot," retorted Peter, with an air of
philosophy.

"You think that's clever, but it's simply silly. How does that fact
affect this particular sabot?"

"I've put my foot in it," groaned Peter comically.

"Besides, she might be a houri from heaven," said Lancelot; "but a houri
in a patched print-frock----" He shuddered, and struck a match.

"I don't know exactly what houris from heaven are, but I have a kind of
feeling any sort of frock would be out of harmony----!"

Lancelot lit his pipe.

"If you begin to say that sort of thing, we must smoke," he said,
laughing between the puffs. "I can offer you lots of tobacco--I'm sorry
I've got no cigars. Wait till you see Mrs. Leadbatter--my landlady--then
you'll talk about houris. Poverty may not be a crime, but it seems to
make people awful bores. Wonder if it'll have that effect on me? _Ach
Himmel_! how that woman bores me. No, there's no denying it--there's my
pouch, old man--I hate the poor; their virtues are only a shade more
vulgar than their vices. This Leadbatter creature is honest after her
lights--she sends me up the most ridiculous leavings--and I only hate her
the more for it."

"I suppose she works Mary Ann's fingers to the bone from the same
mistaken sense of duty," said Peter acutely. "Thanks; think I'll try one
of my cigars. I filled my case, I fancy, before I came out. Yes, here
it is; won't _you_ try one?"

"No, thanks, I prefer my pipe."

"It's the same old meerschaum, I see," said Peter.

"The same old meerschaum," repeated Lancelot, with a little sigh.

Peter lit a cigar, and they sat and puffed in silence.

"Dear me!" said Peter suddenly; "I can almost fancy we're back in our
German garret, up the ninety stairs, can't you?"

"No," said Lancelot sadly, looking round as if in search of something; "I
miss the dreams."

"And I," said Peter, striving to speak cheerfully, "I see a dog too much."

"Yes," said Lancelot, with a melancholy laugh. "When you funked becoming
a Beethoven, I got a dog and called him after you."

"What? you called him Peter?"

"No, Beethoven!"

"Beetho