ere thick friends again a few minutes after a scene so
lively that blows seemed imminent, and they met every morning on the
landing, where, with broom or child in hand, they stood gossiping by
the hour.

When Maurice rang, Frau Furst opened the door to him herself, having
first cautiously examined him through the kitchen window. Drying her
hands on her apron, she ushered him through the tiny entry--a place of
dangers, pitch-dark as it was, and lumbered with chests and
presses--into Franz's room, the "best room" of the house. Here were
collected a red plush suite, which was the pride of Frau Furst's heart,
and all the round, yellowing family photographs; here, too, stood the
well-used Bechstein, pile upon pile of music, a couple of music-stands,
a bust of Schubert, a faded, framed diploma. For years, assuredly, the
windows had never been thrown wide open; the odours of stale coffee and
forgotten dinners, of stove and warmed wood, of piano, music and
beeswax: all these lay as it were in streaks in the atmosphere, and
made it heavy and thought-benumbing.

A willing listener was worth more than gold to Frau Furst and here, the
first time he came, while waiting for Franz, Maurice heard in detail
the history of the family. The father had been an oboist in the
Gewandhaus orchestra, and had died a few years previously, of a chill
incurred after a performance of DIE MEISTERSINGER. At his death, it had
fallen on Franz to support the family; and, thanks to Schwarz's aid and
influence, Franz was able to get as many pupils as he had time to
teach. It was easy to see that this, her eldest son, was the apple of
Frau Furst's eye; her other children seemed to be there only to meet
his needs; his lightest wish was law. Each additional pupil that sought
him out, was a fresh tribute to his genius, each one that left him, no
matter after how long, was unthankful and a traitor. For the nights on
which his quartet met at the house, she prepared as another woman would
for a personal fete; and she watched the candles grow shorter without a
tinge of regret. When Franz played at an ABENDUNTERHALTUNG, the family
turned out in a body. Schwarz was a god, all-powerful, on whom their
welfare depended; and it was necessary to propitiate him by a quarterly
visit on a Sunday morning, when, over wine and biscuits, she wept real
and feigned tears of gratitude.

In this hard-working, careworn woman, who was seldom to be seen but in
petticoat, bed-jacket,