“Did you ring, sir?” said a wheezy voice, at last.  Mrs. Leadbatter had got tired of waiting.

Lancelot started violently—­Mrs. Leadbatter had latterly left him entirely to Mary Ann.  “It’s my hastmer,” she had explained to him apologetically, meeting him casually in the passage.  “I can’t trollop up and down stairs as I used to when I fust took this house five-an’-twenty year ago, and pore Mr. Leadbatter—­” and here followed reminiscences long since in their hundredth edition.

“Yes; let me have some coffee—­very hot—­please,” said Lancelot, less gently.  The woman’s voice jarred upon him; and her features were not redeeming.

“Lawd, sir, I ’ope that gas ‘asn’t been burnin’ all night, sir,” she said, as she was going out.

“It has,” he said shortly.

“You’ll hexcoose me, sir, but I didn’t bargen for that.  I’m only a pore, honest, ‘ard-workin’ widder, and I noticed the last gas bill was ’eavier then hever since that black winter that took pore Mr. Leadbatter to ’is grave.  Fair is fair, and I shall ’ave to reckon it a hextry, with the rate gone up sevenpence a thousand and my Rosie leavin’ a fine nurse-maid’s place in Bayswater at the end of the month to come ’ome and ’elp ’er mother, ’cos my hastmer—­”

“Will you please shut the door after you?” interrupted Lancelot, biting his lip with irritation.  And Mrs. Leadbatter, who was standing in the aperture with no immediate intention of departing, could find no repartee beyond slamming the door as hard as she could.

This little passage of arms strangely softened Lancelot to Mary Ann.  It made him realise faintly what her life must be.

“I should go mad and smash all the crockery!” he cried aloud.  He felt quite tender again towards the uncomplaining girl.

Presently there was another knock.  Lancelot growled, half prepared to renew the battle, and to give Mrs. Leadbatter a piece of his mind on the subject.  But it was merely Mary Ann.

Shaken in his routine, he looked on steadily while Mary Ann drew on her gloves; and this in turn confused Mary Ann.  Her hand trembled.

“Let me help you,” he said.

And there was Lancelot buttoning Mary Ann’s glove just as if her name were Guinevere!  And neither saw the absurdity of wasting time upon an operation which would have to be undone in two minutes.  Then Mary Ann, her eyes full of soft light, went to the sideboard and took out the prosaic elements of breakfast.

When she returned, to put them back, Lancelot was astonished to see her carrying a cage—­a plain square cage, made of white tin wire.

“What’s that?” he gasped.

“Please, Mr. Lancelot, I want to ask you to do me a favour.”  She dropped her eyelashes timidly.

“Yes, Mary Ann,” he said briskly.  “But what have you got there?”

“It’s only my canary, sir.  Would you—­please, sir, would you mind?”—­then desperately, “I want to hang it up here, sir!”