“I see—­it took such a long time coming.  Ha! ha! ha!  And the Herr Professor—­is he still a bachelor?”

As the Herr Professor was a septuagenarian and a misogamist, even in Peter’s time, his question tickled Lancelot.  Altogether the two young men grew quite jolly, recalling a hundred oddities, and reknitting their friendship at the expense of the Fatherland.

“But was there ever a more madcap expedition than ours?” exclaimed Peter.  “Most boys start out to be pirates—­”

“And some do become music-publishers,” Lancelot finished grimly, suddenly reminded of a grievance.

“Ha! ha! ha!  Poor fellow!” laughed Peter.  “Then you have found them out already.”

“Does any one ever find them in?” flashed Lancelot.  “I suppose they do exist and are occasionally seen of mortal eyes.  I suppose wives and friends and mothers gaze on them with no sense of special privilege, unconscious of their invisibility to the profane eyes of mere musicians.”

“My dear fellow, the mere musicians are as plentiful as niggers on the sea-shore.  A publisher might spend his whole day receiving regiments of unappreciated geniuses.  Bond Street would be impassable.  You look at the publisher too much from your own standpoint.”

“I tell you I don’t look at him from any standpoint.  That’s what I complain of.  He’s encircled with a prickly hedge of clerks.  ’You will hear from us.’  ’It shall have our best consideration.  We have no knowledge of the Ms. in question.’  Yes, Peter, two valuable quartets have I lost, messing about with these villains.”

“I tell you what.  I’ll give you an introduction to Brahmson.  I know him—­privately.”

“No, thank you, Peter.”

“Why not?”

“Because you know him.”

“I couldn’t give you an introduction if I didn’t.  This is silly of you, Lancelot.”

“If Brahmson can’t see any merits in my music, I don’t want you to open his eyes.  I’ll stand on my own bottom.  And what’s more, Peter, I tell you once for all”—­his voice was low and menacing—­“if you try any anonymous deus ex machina tricks on me in some sly, roundabout fashion, don’t you flatter yourself I shan’t recognise your hand.  I shall, and, by God, it shall never grasp mine again.”

“I suppose you think that’s very noble and sublime,” said Peter, coolly.  “You don’t suppose if I could do you a turn I’d hesitate for fear of excommunication?  I know you’re like Beethoven there—­your bark is worse than your bite.”

“Very well; try.  You’ll find my teeth nastier than you bargain for.”

“I’m not going to try.  If you want to go to the dogs—­go.  Why should I put out a hand to stop you?”

These amenities having reestablished them in their mutual esteem, they chatted lazily and spasmodically till past midnight, with more smoke than fire in the conversation.

At last Peter began to go, and in course of time actually did take up his umbrella.  Not long after, Lancelot conducted him softly down the dark, silent stairs, holding his bedroom candle-stick in his hand, for Mrs. Leadbatter always turned out the hall lamp on her way to bed.  The old phrases came to the young men’s lips as their hands met in a last hearty grip.