the lines of the old
business, or be shut up altogether. And, by the way, Lancelot, he hasn't
altered a jot since those days when--as you remember--the City or
starvation was his pleasant alternative. Of course, I preferred
starvation--one usually does at nineteen; especially if one knows there's
a scion of aristocracy waiting outside to elope with him to Leipsic."

"But you told me you were going back to your dad, because you found you
had mistaken your vocation."

"Gospel truth also! My heavens, shall I ever forget the blank horror
that grew upon me when I came to understand that music was a science more
barbarous than the mathematics that floored me at school, that the life
of a musical student, instead of being a delicious whirl of waltz tunes,
was 'one dem'd grind,' that seemed to grind out all the soul of the
divine art and leave nothing but horrid technicalities about consecutive
fifths and suspensions on the dominant? I dare say most people still
think of the musician as a being who lives in an enchanted world of
sound, rather than as a person greatly occupied with tedious feats of
penmanship; just as I myself still think of a _prima ballerina_ not as a
hard-working gymnast, but as a fairy, whose existence is all bouquets and
lime-light."

"But you had a pretty talent for the piano," said Lancelot in milder
accents. "No one forced you to learn composition. You could have learnt
anything for the paltry fifteen pounds exacted by the Conservatoire--from
the German flute to the grand organ; from singing to scoring band parts."

"No, thank you. _Aut Caesar aut nihil_. You remember what I always used
to say: 'Either Beethoven----' (The spaniel pricked up his ears.) --or
bust.' If I could not be a great musician it was hardly worth while
enduring the privations of one, especially at another man's expense. So
I did the Prodigal Son dodge, as you know, and out of the proceeds sent
you my year's exes in that cheque you with your damnable pride sent me
back again. And now, old fellow, that I have you face to face at last,
can you offer the faintest scintilla of a shadow of a reason for refusing
to take that cheque? No, you can't! Nothing but simple beastly
stuckuppishness. I saw through you at once; all your heroics were a
fraud. I was not your friend, but your protege--something to practise
your chivalry on. You dropped your cloak, and I saw your feet of clay.
Well, I tell you straight, I made up my mi