“Lebt wohl!” said Lancelot.

“Auf Wiedersehen!” replied Peter, threateningly.

Lancelot stood at the hall door looking for a moment after his friend—­the friend he had tried to cast out of his heart as a recreant.  The mist had cleared—­the stars glittered countless in the frosty heaven; a golden crescent-moon hung low; the lights and shadows lay almost poetically upon the little street.  A rush of tender thoughts whelmed the musician’s soul.  He saw again the dear old garret, up the ninety stairs, in the Hotel Cologne, where he had lived with his dreams; he heard the pianos and violins going in every room in happy incongruity, publishing to all the prowess of the players; dirty, picturesque old Leipsic rose before him; he was walking again in the Hainstrasse, in the shadow of the quaint, tall houses.  Yes, life was sweet after all; he was a coward to lose heart so soon; fame would yet be his; fame and love—­the love of a noble woman that fame earns; some gracious creature, breathing sweet refinements, cradled in an ancient home, such as he had left for ever.

The sentimentality of the Fatherland seemed to have crept into his soul; a divinely sweet, sad melody was throbbing in his brain.  How glad he was he had met Peter again!

From a neighbouring steeple came a harsh, resonant clang, “One.”

It roused him from his dream.  He shivered a little, closed the door, bolted it and put up the chain, and turned, half sighing, to take up his bedroom candle again.  Then his heart stood still for a moment.  A figure—­a girl’s figure—­was coming towards him from the kitchen stairs.  As she came into the dim light he saw that it was merely Mary Ann.

She looked half drowsed.  Her cap was off, her hair tangled loosely over her forehead.  In her disarray she looked prettier than he had ever remembered her.  There was something provoking about the large, dreamy eyes, the red lips that parted at the unexpected sight of him.

“Good heavens!” he cried.  “Not gone to bed yet?”

“No, sir.  I had to stay up to wash up a lot of crockery.  The second floor front had some friends to supper late.  Missus says she won’t stand it again.”

“Poor thing!” He patted her soft cheek—­it grew hot and rosy under his fingers, but was not withdrawn.  Mary Ann made no sign of resentment.  In his mood of tenderness to all creation his rough words to her recurred to him.

“You mustn’t mind what I said about the matches,” he murmured.  “When I am in a bad temper I say anything.  Remember now for the future, will you?”

“Yessir.”

Her face—­its blushes flickered over strangely by the candle-light—­seemed to look up at him invitingly.

“That’s a good girl.”  And bending down he kissed her on the lips.

“Good night,” he murmured.

Mary Ann made some startled, gurgling sound in reply.

Five minutes afterwards Lancelot was in bed, denouncing himself as a vulgar beast.