stidiousness
shrank from realising the unlovely details of Mary Ann's daily
duties--these things disgusted him more with himself than with her.
And yet he found himself acquiring a new and illogical interest in the
boots he met outside doors. Early one morning he went half-way up the
second flight of stairs--a strange region where his own boots had never
before trod--but came down ashamed and with fluttering heart as if he
had gone up to steal boots instead of to survey them. He might have
asked Mary Ann or her "missus" who the other tenants were, but he
shrank from the topic. Their hours were not his, and he only once
chanced on a fellow-man in the passage, and then he was not sure it was
not the tax-collector. Besides, he was not really interested--it was
only a flicker of idle curiosity as to the actual psychology of Mary
Ann. That he did not really care he proved to himself by kissing her
next time. He accepted her as she was--because she was there. She
brightened his troubled life a little, and he was quite sure he
brightened hers. So he drifted on, not worrying himself to mean any
definite harm to her. He had quite enough worry with those
music-publishers.

The financial outlook was, indeed, becoming terrifying. He was glad
there was nobody to question him, for he did not care to face the
facts. Peter's threat of becoming a regular visitor had been nullified
by his father despatching him to Germany to buy up some more Teutonic
patents. "Wonderful are the ways of Providence!" he had written to
Lancelot. "If I had not flown in the old man's face and picked up a
little German here years ago, I should not be half so useful to him
now. . . . I shall pay a flying visit to Leipsic--not on business."

But at last Peter returned, Mrs. Leadbatter panting to the door to let
him in one afternoon without troubling to ask Lancelot if he was "at
home." He burst upon the musician, and found him in the most
undisguisable dumps.

"Why didn't you answer my letter, you impolite old bear?" Peter asked,
warding off Beethoven with his umbrella.

"I was busy," Lancelot replied pettishly.

"Busy writing rubbish. Haven't you got 'Ops.' enough? I bet you
haven't had anything published yet."

"I'm working at a grand opera," he said in dry, mechanical tones. "I
have hopes of getting it put on. Gasco, the _impresario_, is a member
of my club, and he thinks of running a season in the autumn. I had a
talk with him yes