Part 40 (1/2)
”There's many a pretty foot in a sabot,” retorted Peter, with an air of philosophy.
”You think that's clever, but it's simply silly. How does that fact affect this particular sabot?”
”I've put my foot in it,” groaned Peter, comically.
”Besides, she might be a houri from heaven,” said Lancelot; ”but a houri in a patched print frock--” He shuddered and struck a match.
”I don't know exactly what houris from heaven are, but I have a kind of feeling any sort of frock would be out of harmony--!”
Lancelot lit his pipe.
”If you begin to say that sort of thing we must smoke,” he said, laughing between the puffs. ”I can offer you lots of tobacco--I'm sorry I've got no cigars. Wait till you see Mrs. Leadbatter--my landlady--then you'll talk about houris. Poverty may not be a crime, but it seems to make people awful bores. Wonder if it'll have that effect on me? _Ach Himmel!_ how that woman bores me. No, there's no denying it--there's my pouch, old man--I hate the poor; their virtues are only a shade more vulgar than their vices. This Leadbatter creature is honest after her lights--she sends me up the most ridiculous leavings--and I only hate her the more for it.”
”I suppose she works Mary Ann's fingers to the bone from the same mistaken sense of duty,” said Peter, acutely. ”Thanks; think I'll try one of my cigars. I filled my case, I fancy, before I came out. Yes, here it is; won't _you_ try one?”
”No, thanks, I prefer my pipe.”
”It's the same old meerschaum, I see,” said Peter.
”The same old meerschaum,” repeated Lancelot, with a little sigh.
Peter lit a cigar, and they sat and puffed in silence.
”Dear me!” said Peter, suddenly; ”I can almost fancy we're back in our German garret, up the ninety stairs, can't you?”
”No,” said Lancelot, sadly, looking round as if in search of something; ”I miss the dreams.”
”And I,” said Peter, striving to speak cheerfully, ”I see a dog too much.”
”Yes,” said Lancelot, with a melancholy laugh. ”When you funked becoming a Beethoven, I got a dog and called him after you.”
”What? you called him Peter?”
”No, Beethoven!”
”Beethoven! Really?”
”Really. Here, Beethoven!”
The spaniel shook himself, and perked his wee nose up wistfully towards Lancelot's face.
Peter laughed, with a little catch in his voice. He didn't know whether he was pleased, or touched, or angry.
”You started to tell me about those twenty thousand s.h.i.+llings,” he said.
”Didn't I tell you? On the expectations of my triumph, I lived extravagantly, like a fool, joined a club, and took up my quarters there.
When I began to realise the struggle that lay before me, I took chambers; then I took rooms; now I'm in lodgings. The more I realised it, the less rent I paid. I only go to the club for my letters now. I won't have them come here. I'm living incognito.”
”That's taking fame by the forelock, indeed! Then by what name must I ask for you next time? For I'm not to be shaken off.”
”Lancelot.”