He pushed Nick into the anteroom, and turned to Carew with an irritated air.

“I likewise know, sir, what is what.  In plain words, Master Gaston Carew, ye have grossly misrepresented this boy to me, to the waste of much good time.  Why, sir, he does not dance a step, and cannot act at all.”

“Soft, Master Gyles—­be not so fast!” said Carew, haughtily, drawing himself up, with his hand on his poniard; “dost mean to tell me that I have lied to thee?  Marry, sir, thy tongue will run thee into a blind alley!  I told thee that the boy could sing, but not that he could act or dance.”

“Pouf, sir,—­words!  I know my place:  one peg below the dean, sir, nothing less:  ’Magister, et cetera’—­’tis so set down.  And I tell thee, sir, he has no training, not a bit; can’t tell a pricksong from a bottle of hay; doesn’t know a canon from a crocodile, or a fugue from a hole in the ground!”

“Oh, fol-de-riddle de fol-de-rol!  What has that to do with it?  I tell thee, sir, the boy can sing.”

“And, sir, I say I know my place.  Music does not grow like weeds.”

“And fa-la-las don’t make a voice.”

“What!  How?  Wilt thou teach me?” The master’s voice rose angrily.  “Teach me, who learned descant and counterpoint in the Gallo-Belgic schools, sir; the best in all the world!  Thou, who knowest not a staccato from a stick of liquorice!”

Carew shrugged his shoulders impatiently.  “Come, Master Gyles, this is fool play.  I told thee that the boy could sing, and thou hast not yet heard him try.  Thou knowest right well I am no such simple gull as to mistake a jay for a nightingale; and I tell thee, sir, upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour, he has the voice that thou dost need if thou wouldst win the favor of the Queen.  He has the voice, and thou the thingumbobs to make the most of it.  Don’t be a fool, now; hear him sing.  That’s all I ask.  Just hear him once.  Thou’lt pawn thine ears to hear him twice.”

The music-school stood within the old cathedral grounds.  Through the windows came up distantly the murmur of the throng in Paul’s Yard.  It was mid-afternoon, quite warm; blundering flies buzzed up and down the lozenged panes, and through the dark hall crept the humming sound of childish voices reciting eagerly, with now and then a sharp, small cry as some one faltered in his lines and had his fingers rapped.  Somewhere else there were boyish voices running scales, now up, now down, without a stop, and other voices singing harmonies, two parts and three together, here and there a little flat from weariness.

The stairs were very dark, Nick thought, as they went up to another floor; but the long hall they came into there was quite bright with the sun.

At one end was a little stage, like the one at the Rose play-house, with a small gallery for musicians above it; but everything here was painted white and gold, and was most scrupulously clean.  The rush-strewn floor was filled with oaken benches, and there were paintings hanging upon the wall, portraits of old head-masters and precentors.  Some of them were so dark with time that Nick wondered if they had been blackamoors.