The second time Lancelot saw Mary Ann he did not remember having seen her before.  This time she was a biped, and wore a white cap.  Besides, he hardly glanced at her.  He was in a bad temper, and Beethoven was barking terribly at the intruder who stood quaking in the doorway, so that the crockery clattered on the tea-tray she bore.  With a smothered oath Lancelot caught up the fiery little spaniel and rammed him into the pocket of his dressing-gown, where he quivered into silence like a struck gong.  While the girl was laying his breakfast, Lancelot, who was looking moodily at the pattern of the carpet as if anxious to improve upon it, was vaguely conscious of relief in being spared his landlady’s conversation.  For Mrs. Leadbatter was a garrulous body, who suffered from the delusion that small-talk is a form of politeness, and that her conversation was part of the “all inclusive” her lodgers stipulated for.  The disease was hereditary, her father having been a barber, and remarkable for the coolness with which, even as a small boy whose function was lathering and nothing more, he exchanged views about the weather with his victims.

The third time Lancelot saw Mary Ann he noticed that she was rather pretty.  She had a slight, well-built figure, not far from tall, small shapely features, and something of a complexion.  This did not displease him:  she was a little aesthetic touch amid the depressing furniture.

“Don’t be afraid, Polly,” he said more kindly.  “The little devil won’t bite.  He’s all bark.  Call him Beethoven and throw him a bit of sugar.”

The girl threw Beethoven the piece of sugar, but did not venture on the name.  It seemed to her a long name for such a little dog.  As she timidly took the sugar from the basin by the aid of the tongs, Lancelot saw how coarse and red her hand was.  It gave him the same sense of repugnance and refrigescence as the cold, damp steps.  Something he was about to say froze on his lips.  He did not look at Mary Ann for some days; by which time Beethoven had conquered his distrust of her, though she was still distrustful of Beethoven, drawing her skirts tightly about her as if he were a rat.  What forced Mary Ann again upon Lancelot’s morose consciousness was a glint of winter sunshine that settled on her light brown hair.  He said, “By the way, Susan, tell your mistress—­or is it your mother?”

Mary Ann shook her head but did not speak.

“Oh, you are not Miss Leadbatter?”

“No; Mary Ann.”

She spoke humbly; her eyes were shy and would not meet his.  He winced as he heard the name, though her voice was not unmusical.

“Ah, Mary Ann! and I’ve been calling you Jane all along, Mary Ann what?”

She seemed confused and flushed a little.

“Mary Ann!” she murmured.

“Merely Mary Ann?”

“Yessir.”

He smiled.  “Seems a sort of white Topsy,” he was thinking.

She stood still, holding in her hand the table-cloth she had just folded.  Her eyes were downcast, and the glint of sunshine had leapt upon the long lashes.