With the words “starved to death” ringing in his ears, Langly walked to Chelsea. Bitterly he accused himself for his stupid blindness; all this had been going on for days, and he had had no suspicion of it. She had from the first undoubtedly stinted herself so that her father might not go hungry, and when, at last, the real pinch came, she was too weak to resist it. Her father, isolated by his temper from any friends who might have seen what was happening and given warning in time, had also been unconscious of what was passing before his eyes. His gruff independence had slowly famished his own daughter.

“Starved to death!” in the richest city in the world,—the granary of the nations, into whose ample lap pours the golden wheat from every country under the sun that ripens it.

At last Langly reached the studio, and might have known, had he been conversant with the habits of the great world, that a notable function was in progress thereabout by the numerous carriages, with fine horses and resplendent coachmen and footmen, that waited near by. In his earlier days Langly had hoped for pupils to instruct and thus increase his scanty income. He had cards printed—“Albert Langly,” in the centre, and “Teacher of Music”, in smaller type in the corner. These were never used, Langly not having the courage to push his inquiries for pupils and secure them. He, knowing Barney to be a fashionable man, had put some of these cards in his pocket, and, when the boy in buttons swung open the door, the bit of pasteboard was handed to him. The boy glanced at the card, dropped it into the receptacle that contained many others, and shouted the name up his stairway, wafting its ascent with a wave of his hand. The man who held aside the heavy drapery which covered the doorway bawled the name into the room, from which a confused murmur of conversation came, mingled now and then with a pleasing ripple of laughter. The ornamental living statue at the top of the stair gazed dreamily over Langly’s head as he mounted.

Taking another card, the organist gave it to the man at the door.

“I have not come to the ‘At Home,’” he said. “Would you give this to Mr. Hope and ask if he will see me for a moment. Tell him I called last night, and could not come earlier to-day.”

The man took the card and disappeared behind the curtains. In an incredibly short time Barney came out, and his reception of the musician was bewilderingly effusive.

“My dear fellow,” he cried, placing a hand on each shoulder of Langly, “can you play the piano? Of course you can. What a foolish question to ask! I always alight on my feet. Providence has dropped you down here, my boy, don’t you know. Here we have just sent out to scour Chelsea for a pianist, and here you drop right down from the skies, don’t you know. This is luck. Want to see me? Of course you do, and what’s more to the point, I want to see you, don’t you know! Now come right in. I’ve got the finest grand piano you ever fingered in your life—magnificent instrument—case designed by myself—told ’em to spare no expense, and they didn’t, don’t you know. Trust ’em for that. Now come in, come in.”

“Mr. Hope, I did not come to play—I am in no condition for playing.”

“Of course you didn’t come to play. That’s the beauty of it. You want something from me, now don’t you?”

“Yes, and if you will give me a moment——”

“A thousand of’em, my boy, a thousand of’em, but not just now. Listen to me. You want something I’ve got, and I want something you’ve got Very well. All England’s prosperity is based on just that position of things. Our commerce is founded on it. Our mutual country is great merely because she knows what she wants, and because she has something the other fellow wants, don’t you know! Now, I want a man who can play dance music, and I want him now—not to-morrow, or day after, or next week. You see what I mean? Good. You come in and polish us off some waltzes on the new piano; then, when it’s all over, I’ll let you have what you want, if it’s half my kingdom, as the story-books say. Then we will both be happy, don’t you know.”

“I am organist at St. Martyrs church. I can’t——”

“That’s all right. Don’t apologize. You can play the piano as well as the organ—I know that by the look of you. Come in, come in.”

Barney triumphantly dragged the reluctant musician after him.

“I’ve got him,” he cried, at which there was a clatter of applause and laughter.

“Now, there,” said Barney jubilantly, seating Langly before the grand piano, with its great lid like a dragon’s wing propped up, “there’s all the sheet music any reasonable man can want; but if you prefer anything else I’ll send out for it; and there’s the piano—‘Come let us hear its tune,’ as the poet says.”

The rugs which usually covered the waxed floor had been cleared away; the chairs had been shoved into corners and against the wall. There was much laughter and many protestations that they had not come prepared for a dance, but all were quite noticeably eager for the fun to begin.

“You see, you are in Bohemia,” cried Barney, beaming joyously on his many guests, “and the delight of Bohemia is unconventionality. I danced after the theatre till daylight this morning, and I am as ready as ever to begin again. Shall we not lunch because we have breakfasted, and because we dine at seven? Not so. I am ready for a dance any time of the night or day. Now, Mr. Musician, strike up. ‘On with the dance, let joy be unconfined!’ as the poet says.”

Langly could not have played out of time or tune if he tried. The piano, as Barney had truly said, was a splendid instrument, and when the gay waltz music filled the large room, each couple began to float lightly over the polished floor. The musician played on and on, mechanically yet brilliantly, and in the pauses between the dances more than one of the guests spoke to their host of the music’s excellence.

“Oh, yes,” said Barney, with a jaunty wave of the hand, “he’s one of my finds. The man’s a genius, don’t you know, and is in music what I am myself in painting.”

“Barney, you always lay it on too thick,” said one of the young men. “You’ll turn the pianist’s head with flattery, if he knows you consider him as clever as yourself.”

“Perhaps you imagine I’m too dense to see through that remark,” said Barney, with the condescension of true genius. “I know your sneering ways: but let me tell you what I meant was that both the musician and myself are unrecognized by the mob of commonplace people of whom you are so distinguished a representative.” (“I flatter myself I had him there,” whispered Barney, aside, to the lady on his right.) “Yes, my boy, the day will come when you will be proud to say you were invited to these receptions, which I intend to make one of the artistic features of London society.”

“Why, Barney,” protested the young man, “I’m proud of it now. I make myself objectionable in all my clubs by continually bragging that you smile upon me. I claim that you are in art what the Universal Provider is in commerce.”

“Do get him to play something while we are resting,” murmured the lady, thus pouring oil on the troubled waters.

Langly sat at the piano, a disconsolate figure, paying no attention to the hum of conversation around him. His thoughts were far away, in the squalid room where the dead girl lay. Barney bustled up to him, and the musician came to himself with a start on being spoken to.

“Here are several Hungarian mazurkas—weird things—you’ll like’em. Just polish off a few for us while we have some tea, will you? They are all complimenting your playing—they’re people who know a good thing when they hear it. Won’t you have some refreshment yourself before you begin?”

Langly shook his head, and began playing the Hungarian music. Barney sat down again beside the lady, smiling with satisfaction at being able to pose as the patron of so accomplished a musician. The lady leaned her chin on her hand, and listened intently.

“How marvellously he does those mazurkas!” she whispered, softly. “He brings out that diabolical touch which seems to be in much of the Polish and Hungarian music.”

“Yes,” assented Barney, cordially, “he does play like the devil, yet he is an organist in a church. Ah, well, I suppose Beelzebub looks after our music as he does our morals.”

“Has he composed anything?”

“Who? Satan?”

“No, no. You know very well I’m speaking of the organist.”

“Composed! Well, rather. He’s an unrecognized genius, but I’m going to look after his recognition. I’m going to bring out some of his works, if he’ll let me. He’s a very modest man, and——”

“Another likeness to yourself.”

“Exactly, exactly. I’m always pushing other people forward and neglecting my own interests; still, I’ll arrive some of these days and astonish you all, don’t you know. You see, our set doesn’t produce men of genius like that organist. The ‘upper ten’ never produced a Shakespeare.”

“I thought it did. Didn’t Lord Bacon write Shakespeare?”

“No, he didn’t. I’ve looked up that question, but there’s nothing in it, don’t you know. No, the really great men come from the common people. The world doesn’t know where to look for them, but I do, and I find ’em just as I found this man. I go for my society to the aristocracy, but for my geniuses to the democracy.”

“But if society does not produce great men, how do you hope to become the greatest of painters?”

“Ah, painting’s a different thing, don’t you know; it has always been the gentleman’s art. Leonardo and all of those chaps were great swells. Rubens—or was it Titian?—one of them, anyhow, went as ambassador to the court of Spain in great pomp. Painters have always been the companions of kings. But I say, let us have another dance.”

Once more the dreamy waltz music mingled with the swish-swish of silken skirts, sibilant on the polished floor. Langly nearly always lost himself in whatever music he played, but now it merely dulled his sorrow, and an undertone of deep grief lay beneath the frivolous harmony that rippled so smoothly and sweetly from the piano—an undertone heard by none save himself. Merry laughter, and now and then a whispered phrase as the dancers swung close to where he sat, fell on his unheeding ear, and he wished his task were done, so that he might face again the long walk lying before him. He chided himself as being ungrateful, when it seemed hard that at this time he should be called upon to minister to the amusement of a pleasure-loving party; for he remembered that the Hebrew had toiled seven years uncomplaining for the woman he loved: so why should he grudge an afternoon, when the object was practically the same, although hope cheered the longer task, and despair clouded the shorter. Each in his way laboured for his love, living and dead.

The heavy hand of Barney came down boisterously on the thinly clad shoulder of the player, and partially aroused him from his bitter reverie.

“First rate, my boy, first rate! You’ve done nobly, and every one is delighted—charmed!—they are indeed, I assure you. Now they’re saying good-by, so give us a rousing march for the farewell—anything you like—something of your own would be just the thing; you know what I mean—a march with a suggestion of regret in it—sorry they’re going, don’t you know.”

Barney hurried back to his guests, shaking hands, asking them to come again, and receiving gushing thanks for a most agreeable afternoon. Suddenly there knelled forth on the murmur of farewell the solemn notes of the Funeral March, like the measured toll of a passing-bell. The metallic clangour of the instrument gave a vibrant thrill to the sombre music, which was lacking in the smooth, round tones of the organ. Langly played like a man entranced, his head thrown back, his pale face turned upward, looking as if life had left it. An instantaneous chilling hush fell on the assemblage, as if an icy wind had swept through the room, freezing into silence the animated stream of conversation. Some shivered where they stood, and one girl, clasping her cloak at her throat, paused and said, half hysterically:

“If this is a joke, Mr. Hope, I must say I don’t like it.”

“Cursed bad taste, if you ask me,” muttered one man, hurrying away.

“Oh, I say,” cried Barney, as much shocked as any one at the inopportune incident, and striding toward the performer, as soon as his wits came to him, “we didn’t want a dirge, don’t you know.”

The lady who had spoken in praise of Langly’s music laid a detaining hand on Barney’s arm.

“Hush!” she said gently, the glimmer of tears in her eyes, “don’t stop him. Listen! That man is inspired. I never heard Chopin played like that before.”

“Oh, it’s Chopin, is it?” murmured Barney, apologetically, as if, had he known it, he would not have interfered.

The throng dissolved rapidly with the unwelcome chords ringing in their ears, leaving Barney and his guest standing there alone. Langly, on finishing the march, sat where he was, his long arms drooping by his side.

“Wouldn’t you like to speak to him?” asked Barney.

“No, not now.”

The lady stole softly out, Barney following her to the landing at the head of the stair.

“Please don’t lose sight of him,” she said, giving Barney her hand. “I want you to ask him here again, and let me invite the guests.”

“I’ll do it,” said Barney, enthusiastically. “That will be awfully jolly.”

“No, it won’t be jolly, Mr. Hope, but we’ll hear some enchanting music. Good-by!”

Barney re-entered the room, and found Langly standing beside the piano like a man awakened from a dream, apparently not quite knowing where he was.

“You must have something to drink,” cried Barney, cordially. “You look fagged out, and no wonder. I never heard Chopin so well rendered before. I tell you, my boy, you get all out of a piano that’s in it, don’t you know. Now, will you have whiskey or brandy?”

Langly thanked him, but refused either beverage. He had a long walk before him, and was anxious to get away, he said.

“Walk!” cried Barney. “Nonsense! Why should you walk, and thus insult every self-respecting cabby you meet? I’ll see about the walking; I hope I know my duty towards the hansom industry.”

Barney touched an electric bell, and when his man appeared said to him:

“Just send Buttons to the King’s Road for a hansom. When it comes, give the cabby ten shillings and tell him he belongs to his fare for four hours. Ask him to wait at the door till his fare comes, and meanwhile, bring in some whiskey and soda. Now, Mr. Organist—I always forget names—ah, Langly, here it is on the card, of course. Have you ever composed any music yourself? I thought so. Ever published any? I thought not. Well, my boy, we must remedy all that. You’re too modest; I can see that. Now, modesty doesn’t pay in London. I know, because I suffer from it myself. Heavens! if I only had the cheek of some men, I would be the most famous painter in Europe. If you bring a few of your compositions to me, I’ll get a publisher for you. Will you promise? Nonsense! not worthy? Bosh! Compared with the great composers? My dear fellow, the great composers were all very well in their way, I’ve no doubt, but they were once poor devils like you. Because Raphael painted, is that any reason why I should not improve on him? Not a bit of it. You and I will be old masters in painting and music some few centuries hence—you just wait and see. The great point is to realize that you’re an old master while you’re young and can do something. If you don’t recognize the fact yourself, you may be jolly well sure no one else will—at least, not in time to do you any good here below. Do have some whiskey; ‘it’s cheering and comforting,’ as the advertisements say. Well, here’s to you!”

“I came to see you, Mr. Hope,” stammered Langly, diffidently, “because Marsten—one of your father’s employees—told me he thought you might—that you were good enough to help once——”

“Oh. yes, I remember Marsten. He was here about some fellow knocking down a few policemen. Well—has he knocked down some more?”

“No, but he is in great trouble, Mr. Hope.”

“Such a man is sure to be. How much is the fine?”

“His only daughter died yesterday.”

“Oh, I’m very sorry to hear it—very sorry, indeed.”

“He has no money, and none of the men have any. Braunt would ask no one for help, but I know that he fears there will have to be a——He doesn’t want her to be buried as a pauper—and I thought——”

“Of course, of course. I see it all. I never could understand the feeling of the poor on that subject. They seem to like a fine funeral, as if that mattered. I confess that if you give me good company while I’m alive, you may do what you please with me when I’m dead. I would just as soon lie beside a pauper as a prince, but I prefer the prince when I’m above ground. Now, how much will be needed? Of course you don’t know; no more do I. Let us say fifteen pounds; if more is wanted, just telegraph me and I’ll send it by messenger at once, don’t you know. No, you mustn’t think of sending any of it back. Use the surplus, if there is a surplus, for some charity or another. But you must come back yourself, and we’ll have a talk on music. Drop in any time—there’s no ceremony here. And just write your address on this card, so that I may communicate with you. I promised a lady to have you here some day to play for a few friends. You won’t disappoint me, will you? Thanks, I’m ever so much obliged.”

“The hansom is here, sir,” said the man, entering. “All right. I’ll just see you into your cab, Mr.—er—Langly. No trouble at all; don’t mention it. You can make this fellow drive you around for four hours, if you want to. He’d take you to Brighton in that time, so I suppose he’ll land you anywhere in London in short order. Well, good-by, my dear fellow, and I thank you ever so much for your exquisite music.”