“Not Good-night and Good-by, I hope,” laughed Lancelot.

“Yes—­the very one!” cried Peter, astonished.

“Himmel!” groaned Lancelot, in comic despair.

“You know it already?” inquired Peter, eagerly.

“No; only I can’t open a paper without seeing the advertisement and the sickly sentimental refrain.”

“You see how famous it is, anyway,” said Peter.  “And if you want to strike—­er—­to make a hit you’ll just take that song and do a deliberate imitation of it.”

“Wha-a-a-t!” gasped Lancelot.

“My dear chap, they all do it.  When the public cotton to a thing, they can’t have enough of it.”

“But I can write my own rot, surely.”

“In the face of all this litter of ‘Ops.’  I daren’t dispute that for a moment.  But it isn’t enough to write rot—­the public want a particular kind of rot.  Now just play that over—­oblige me.”  He laid both hands on Lancelot’s shoulders in amicable appeal.

Lancelot shrugged them, but seated himself at the piano, played the introductory chords, and commenced singing the words in his pleasant baritone.

Suddenly Beethoven ran towards the door, howling.

Lancelot ceased playing and looked approvingly at the animal.

“By Jove! he wants to go out.  What an ear for music that animal’s got.”

Peter smiled grimly.  “It’s long enough.  I suppose that’s why you call him Beethoven.”

“Not at all.  Beethoven had no ear—­at least not in his latest period—­he was deaf.  Lucky devil!  That is, if this sort of thing was brought round on barrel-organs.”

“Never mind, old man!  Finish the thing.”

“But consider Beethoven’s feelings!”

“Hang Beethoven!”

“Poor Beethoven.  Come here, my poor maligned musical critic!  Would they give you a bad name and hang you?  Now you must be very quiet.  Put your paws into those lovely long ears of yours, if it gets too horrible.  You have been used to high-class music, I know, but this is the sort of thing that England expects every man to do, so the sooner you get used to it, the better.”  He ran his fingers along the keys.  “There, Peter, he’s growling already.  I’m sure he’ll start again, the moment I strike the theme.”

“Let him!  We’ll take it as a spaniel obligato.”

“Oh, but his accompaniments are too staccato.  He has no sense of time.”

“Why don’t you teach him, then, to wag his tail like the pendulum of a metronome?  He’d be more use to you that way than setting up to be a musician, which Nature never meant him for—­his hair’s not long enough.  But go ahead, old man, Beethoven’s behaving himself now.”

Indeed, as if he were satisfied with his protest, the little beast remained quiet, while his lord and master went through the piece.  He did not even interrupt at the refrain:—­

  “Kiss me, good-night, dear love,
     Dream of the old delight;
   My spirit is summoned above,
     Kiss me, dear love, good-night.”