ring
Lancelot had thrown across the track. "You stand out for a royalty on
every copy, so that if you strike ile--oh, I beg your pardon, that's
another of the phrases you object to, isn't it?"

"Don't be a fool," said Lancelot, laughing on. "You know I only object
to that in connection with English peers marrying the daughters of men
who have done it."

"Oh, is that it? I wish you'd publish an expurgated dictionary with
most of the words left out, and exact definitions of the conditions
under which one may use the remainder. But I've got on a siding. What
was I talking about?"

"Royalty," muttered Lancelot languidly.

"Royalty? No. You mentioned the aristocracy, I think." Then he burst
into a hearty laugh. "Oh yes--on that ballad. Now, look here! I've
brought a ballad with me just to show you--a thing that is going like
wildfire."

"'Not _Good-night and good-bye_, I hope," laughed Lancelot.

"Yes--the very one!" cried Peter, astonished.

"_Himmel_!" groaned Lancelot in comic despair.

"You know it already?" inquired Peter eagerly.

"No; only I can't open a paper without seeing the advertisement and the
sickly-sentimental refrain."

"You see how famous it is, anyway," said Peter. "And if you want to
strike--er--to make a hit you'll just take that song and do a
deliberate imitation of it."

"Wha-a-a-t!" gasped Lancelot.

"My dear chap, they all do it. When the public cotton to a thing they
can't have enough of it."

"But I can write my own rot, surely."

"In the face of all this litter of 'Ops.' I daren't dispute that for a
moment. But it isn't enough to write rot--the public want a particular
kind of rot. Now just play that over--oblige me." He laid both hands
on Lancelot's shoulders in amicable appeal.

Lancelot shrugged them, but seated himself at the piano, played the
introductory chords, and commenced singing the words in his pleasant
baritone.

Suddenly Beethoven ran towards the door, howling.

Lancelot ceased playing and looked approvingly at the animal.

"By Jove! He wants to go out. What an ear for music that animal's
got!"

Peter smiled grimly. "It's long enough. I suppose that's why you call
him Beethoven."

"Not at all. Beethoven had no ear--at least not in his latest
period--he was deaf. Lucky devil! That is, if this sort of thing was
brought round on barrel-organs."

"Never mind, old man! Finish the thing."

"But consider Beethoven's feelings!"

"Hang