little boy and a very sweet voice, of which Peter Baron had caught
the accent, not from her singing (for she only played), but from her
gay admonitions to her child, whom she occasionally allowed to amuse
himself--under restrictions very publicly enforced--in the tiny black
patch which, as a forecourt to each house, was held, in the humble
row, to be a feature. Jersey Villas stood in pairs, semi-detached,
and Mrs. Ryves--such was the name under which the new lodger
presented herself--had been admitted to the house as confessedly
musical. Mrs. Bundy, the earnest proprietress of No. 3, who
considered her "parlours" (they were a dozen feet square), even more
attractive, if possible, than the second floor with which Baron had
had to content himself--Mrs. Bundy, who reserved the drawing-room for
a casual dressmaking business, had threshed out the subject of the
new lodger in advance with our young man, reminding him that her
affection for his own person was a proof that, other things being
equal, she positively preferred tenants who were clever.

This was the case with Mrs. Ryves; she had satisfied Mrs. Bundy that
she was not a simple strummer. Mrs. Bundy admitted to Peter Baron
that, for herself, she had a weakness for a pretty tune, and Peter
could honestly reply that his ear was equally sensitive. Everything
would depend on the "touch" of their inmate. Mrs. Ryves's piano
would blight his existence if her hand should prove heavy or her
selections vulgar; but if she played agreeable things and played them
in an agreeable way she would render him rather a service while he
smoked the pipe of "form." Mrs. Bundy, who wanted to let her rooms,
guaranteed on the part of the stranger a first-class talent, and Mrs.
Ryves, who evidently knew thoroughly what she was about, had not
falsified this somewhat rash prediction. She never played in the
morning, which was Baron's working-time, and he found himself