you'd say, it isn't music," he said
slyly. "And just because I don't want it I make a heap of coin out of
it--that's why I'm so vexed at your keeping me still in your debt."

Lancelot frowned. "Then you had no difficulty in getting published?"
he asked.

"I don't say that. It was bribery and corruption so far as my first
song was concerned. I tipped a professional to go down and tell
Brahmson he was going to take it up. You know, of course, well-known
singers get half a guinea from the publisher every time they sing a
song."

"No; do they?" said Lancelot. "How mean of them."

"Business, my boy. It pays the publisher to give it them. Look at the
advertisement!"

"But suppose a really fine song was published and the publisher refused
to pay this blood-money?"

"Then I suppose they'd sing some other song, and let that moulder on
the foolish publisher's shelves."

"Great heavens!" said Lancelot, jumping up from the piano in wild
excitement. "Then a musician's reputation is really at the mercy of a
mercenary crew of singers, who respect neither art nor themselves. Oh
yes, we are indeed a musical people!"

"Easy there! Several of 'em are pals of mine, and I'll get them to
take up those ballads of yours as soon as you write 'em."

"Let them go to the devil with their ballads!" roared Lancelot, and
with a sweep of his arm whirled _Good-night and good-bye_ into the air.
Peter picked it up and wrote something on it with a stylographic pen
which he produced from his waistcoat pocket.

"There!" he said, "that'll make you remember it's your own
property--and mine--that you are treating so disrespectfully."

"I beg your pardon, old chap," said Lancelot, rebuked and remorseful.

"Don't mention it," replied Peter. "And whenever you decide to become
rich and famous--there's your model."

"Never! never! never!" cried Lancelot, when Peter went at ten. "My
poor Beethoven! What you must have suffered! Never mind, I'll play
you your Moonlight sonata."

He touched the keys gently, and his sorrows and his temptations faded
from him. He glided into Bach, and then into Chopin and Mendelssohn,
and at last drifted into dreamy improvisation, his fingers moving
almost of themselves, his eyes, half closed, seeing only inward visions.

And then, all at once, he awoke with a start, for Beethoven was barking
towards the door, with pricked-up ears and rigid tail.

"Sh! You little beggar," he murmured, becoming consci