It was already Friday afternoon.  He gathered together his few personal belongings—­his books, his manuscripts, opera innumerable.  There was room in his portmanteau for everything—­now he had no clothes.  On the Monday the long nightmare would be over.  He would go down to some obscure seaside nook and live very quietly for a few weeks, and gain strength and calm in the soft spring airs, and watch hand-in-hand with Mary Ann the rippling scarlet trail of the setting sun fade across the green waters.  Life, no doubt, would be hard enough still.  Struggles and trials enough were yet before him, but he would not think of that now—­enough that for a month or two there would be bread and cheese and kisses.  And then, in the midst of a tender reverie, with his hand on the lid of his portmanteau, he was awakened by ominous sounds of objurgation from the kitchen.

His heart stood still.  He went down a few stairs and listened.

“Not another stroke of work do you do in my house, Mary Ann!” Then there was silence, save for the thumping of his own heart.  What had happened?

He heard Mrs. Leadbatter mounting the kitchen stairs, wheezing and grumbling, “Well, of all the sly little things!”

Mary Ann had been discovered.  His blood ran cold at the thought.  The silly creature had been unable to keep the secret.

“Not a word about ’im all this time.  Oh, the sly little thing!  Who would hever a-believed it?”

And then, in the intervals of Mrs. Leadbatter’s groanings, there came to him the unmistakable sound of Mary Ann sobbing—­violently, hysterically.  He turned from cold to hot in a fever of shame and humiliation.  How had it all come about?  Oh, yes, he could guess.  The gloves!  What a fool he had been!  Mrs. Leadbatter had unearthed the box.  Why did he give her more than the pair that could always be kept hidden in her pocket?  Yes, it was the gloves.  And then there was the canary.  Mrs. Leadbatter had suspected he was leaving her for a reason.  She had put two and two together, she had questioned Mary Ann, and the ingenuous little idiot had naively told her he was going to take her with him.  It didn’t really matter, of course; he didn’t suppose Mrs. Leadbatter could exercise any control over Mary Ann, but it was horrible to be discussed by her and Rosie; and then there was that meddlesome vicar, who might step in and make things nasty.

Mrs. Leadbatter’s steps and wheezes and grumblings had arrived in the passage, and Lancelot hastily stole back into his room, his heart continuing to flutter painfully.

He heard the complex noises reach his landing, pass by, and move up higher.  She wasn’t coming in to him then; he could endure the suspense no longer.  He threw open his door and said, “Is there anything the matter?”

Mrs. Leadbatter paused and turned her head.

“His there anything the matter!” she echoed, looking down upon him.  “A nice thing when a woman’s troubled with hastmer and brought ’ome ’er daughter to take ’er place, that she should ’ave to start ‘untin’ afresh!”