Merely Mary Ann

'The very thing I'm dying for,' cried Peter energetically; 'I'm as parched as a pea.' Inwardly he was shocked to find the stream of whisky run dry.

So Lancelot rang the bell, and Mary Ann came up with the tea-tray in the twilight.

'We'll have a light,' cried Peter, and struck one of his own with a shadowy underthought of saving Mary Ann from a possible scolding, in case Lancelot's matches should be again unapparent. Then he uttered a comic exclamation of astonishment. Mary Ann was putting on a pair of gloves! In his surprise he dropped the match.

Mary Ann was equally startled by the unexpected sight of a stranger, but when he struck the second match her hands were bare and red.

'What in heaven's name were you putting on gloves for, my girl?' said Peter, amused.

Lancelot stared fixedly at the fire, trying to keep the blood from flooding his cheeks. He wondered that the ridiculousness of the whole thing had never struck him in its full force before. Was it possible he could have made such an ass of himself?

'Please, sir, I've got to go out, and I'm in a hurry,' said Mary Ann.

Lancelot felt intense relief. An instant after his brow wrinkled itself. 'Oho!' he thought. 'So this is Miss Simpleton, is it?'

'Then why did you take them off again?' retorted Peter.

Mary Ann's repartee was to burst into tears and leave the room.

'Now I've offended her,' said Peter. 'Did you see how she tossed her pretty head?'

'Ingenious minx,' thought Lancelot.

'She's left the tray on a chair by the door,' went on Peter. 'What an odd girl! Does she always carry on like this?'

'She's got such a lot to do. I suppose she sometimes gets a bit queer in her head,' said Lancelot, conceiving he was somehow safe-guarding Mary Ann's honour by the explanation.

'I don't think that,' answered Peter. 'She did seem dull and stupid when I was here last. But I had a good stare at her just now, and she seems rather bright. Why, her accent is quite refined-she must have picked it up from you.'

'Nonsense, nonsense!' exclaimed Lancelot testily.

The little danger-or rather the great danger of being made to appear ridiculous-which he had just passed through, contributed to rouse him from his torpor. He exerted himself to turn the conversation, and was quite lively over tea.

'Sw-eêt! Sw-w-w-w-eêt!' suddenly broke into the conversation.

'More mysteries!' cried Peter. 'What's that?'

'Only a canary.'

'What, another musical instrument! Isn't Beethoven jealous? I wonder he doesn't consume his rival in his wrath. But I never knew you liked birds.'

'I don't particularly. It isn't mine.'

'Whose is it?'

Lancelot answered briskly, 'Mary Ann's. She asked to be allowed to keep it here. It seems it won't sing in her attic; it pines away.'

'And do you believe that?'

'Why not? It doesn't sing much even here.'

'Let me look at it-ah, it's a plain Norwich yellow. If you wanted a singing canary you should have come to me, I'd have given you one 'made in Germany'-one of our patents-they train them to sing tunes, and that puts up the price.'

'Thank you, but this one disturbs me sufficiently.'

'Then why do you put up with it?'

'Why do I put up with that Christmas number supplement over the mantel-piece? It's part of the furniture. I was asked to let it be here, and I couldn't be rude.'

'No, it's not in your nature. What a bore it must be to feed it! Let me see, I suppose you give it canary seed biscuits-I hope you don't give it butter.'

'Don't be an ass!' roared Lancelot. 'You don't imagine I bother my head whether it eats butter or-or marmalade.'

'Who feeds it then?'

'Mary Ann, of course.'

'She comes in and feeds it?'

'Certainly.'

'Several times a day?'

'I suppose so.'

'Lancelot,' said Peter solemnly, 'Mary Ann's mashed on you.'

Lancelot shrank before Peter's remark as a burglar from a policeman's bull's-eye. The bull's-eye seemed to cast a new light on Mary Ann, too, but he felt too unpleasantly dazzled to consider that for the moment; his whole thought was to get out of the line of light.

'Nonsense!' he answered; 'why I'm hardly ever in when she feeds it, and I believe it eats all day long-gets supplied in the morning like a coal-scuttle. Besides, she comes in to dust and all that when she pleases. And I do wish you wouldn't use that word 'mashed.' I loathe it.'

Indeed, he writhed under the thought of being coupled with Mary Ann. The thing sounded so ugly-so squalid. In the actual, it was not so unpleasant, but looked at from the outside-unsympathetically-it was hopelessly vulgar, incurably plebeian. He shuddered.

'I don't know,' said Peter. 'It's a very expressive word, is 'mashed.' But I will make allowance for your poetical feelings and give up the word-except in its literal sense, of course. I'm sure you wouldn't object to mashing a music-publisher!'

Lancelot laughed with false heartiness. 'Oh, but if I'm to write those popular ballads, you say he'll become my best friend.'

'Of course he will,' cried Peter, eagerly sniffing at the red herring 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.