“I must say it’s not so awful as I expected,” said Lancelot, candidly; “it’s not at all bad—­for a waltz.”

“There, you see!” cried Peter, eagerly; “the public are not such fools after all.”

“Still, the words are the most maudlin twaddle!” said Lancelot, as if he found some consolation in the fact.

“Yes, but I didn’t write them!” replied Peter, quickly.  Then he grew red and laughed an embarrassed laugh.  “I didn’t mean to tell you, old man.  But there—­the cat’s out.  That’s what took me to Brahmson’s that afternoon we met!  And I harmonised it myself, mind you, every crotchet.  I picked up enough at the Conservatoire for that.  You know lots of fellows only do the tune—­they give out all the other work.”

“So you are the great Keeley Lesterre, eh?” said Lancelot, in amused astonishment.

“Yes; I have to do it under another name.  I don’t want to grieve the old man.  You see, I promised him to reform, when he took me back to his heart and business.”

“Is that strictly honourable, Peter?” said Lancelot, shaking his head.

“Oh, well!  I couldn’t give it up altogether, but I do practically stick to the contract—­it’s all overtime, you know.  It doesn’t interfere a bit with business.  Besides, as you’d say, it isn’t music,” he said slyly.  “And just because I don’t want it I make a heap of coin out of it—­that’s why I’m so vexed at your keeping me still in your debt.”

Lancelot frowned.  “Then you had no difficulty in getting published?” he asked.

“I don’t say that.  It was bribery and corruption so far as my first song was concerned.  I tipped a professional to go down and tell Brahmson he was going to take it up.  You know, of course, well-known singers get half-a-guinea from the publisher every time they sing a song.”

“No; do they?” said Lancelot.  “How mean of them!”

“Business, my boy.  It pays the publisher to give it them.  Look at the advertisement!”

“But suppose a really fine song was published, and the publisher refused to pay this blood-money?”

“Then I suppose they’d sing some other song, and let that moulder on the foolish publisher’s shelves.”

“Great Heavens!” said Lancelot, jumping up from the piano in wild excitement.  “Then a musician’s reputation is really at the mercy of a mercenary crew of singers, who respect neither art nor themselves.  Oh, yes, we are indeed a musical people!”

“Easy there!  Several of ’em are pals of mine, and I’ll get them to take up those ballads of yours as soon as you write ’em.”

“Let them go to the devil with their ballads!” roared Lancelot, and with a sweep of his arm whirled Good-night and Good-by into the air.  Peter picked it up and wrote something on it with a stylographic pen which he produced from his waistcoat pocket.

“There!” he said, “that’ll make you remember it’s your own property—­and mine—­that you are treating so disrespectfully.”