‘It’s a good job, though, that I haven’t got to live by them,’ Pair said; and there indeed he touched a salient point.  His people were dead; his father had been a younger son; he had no money of his own.  But his father’s elder brother, a squire in Hampshire, made him rather a liberal allowance,—­something like six hundred a year, I believe, which was opulence in the Latin Quarter.  Now, the squire had been aware of Pair’s relation with Godelinette from its inception, and had not disapproved.  On his visits to Paris he had dined with them, given them dinners, and treated her with the utmost complaisance.  But when, one fine morning, her tailor died, and my quixotic friend announced his intention of marrying her, dans les delais legaux, the squire protested.  I think I read the whole correspondence, and I remember that in the beginning the elder man took the tone of paradox and banter.  ’Behave dishonourably, my dear fellow.  I have winked at your mistress heretofore, because boys will be boys; but it is the man who marries.  And, anyhow, a woman is so much more interesting in a false position.’  But he soon became serious, presently furious, and, when the marriage was an accomplished fact, cut off the funds.

‘Never mind, my dear,’ said Pair.  ’We will go to London and seek our fortune.  We will write the songs of the people, and let who will make the laws.  We will grow rich and famous, and

    “When I am king, diddle-diddle,
        You shall be queen!"’

* * * * *

So they went to London to seek their fortune, and—­that was the last I ever saw of them, nearly the last I heard.  I had two letters from Pair, written within a month of their hegira—­gossipy, light-hearted letters, describing the people they were meeting, reporting Godelinette’s quaint observations upon England and English things, explaining his hopes, his intentions, all very confidently—­and then I had no more.  I wrote again, and still again, till, getting no answer, of course I ceased to write.  I was hurt and puzzled; but in the spring we should meet in London, and could have it out.  When the spring came, however, my plans were altered:  I had to go to America.  I went by way of Havre, expecting to stay six weeks, and was gone six years.

On my return to England I said to people, ’You have a brilliant young composer named Pair.  Can you put me in the way of procuring his address?’ The fortune he had come to seek he would surely have found; he would be a known man.  But people looked blank, and declared they had never heard of him.  I applied to music-publishers—­with the same result.  I wrote to his uncle in Hampshire; the squire did not reply.  When I reached Paris I inquired of our friends there; they were as ignorant as I.  ‘He must be dead,’ I concluded.  ’If he had lived, it is impossible we should not have heard of him.’  And I wondered what had become of Godelinette.