bitterness that is stored up for a sensitive artist tied by fate to an
omniscient Philistine who feeds his body with bread and his soul with
instruction about art and behavior.

Presently he mastered the black mood which came near being too much
for him, his face cleared and he leaned back, quietly smoking. From
the rug rose a muffled rumbling where Mrs Gummidge dozed in peace. The
clock ticked sharply. A mouse dropped silently from the window curtain
and scuttled away unmarked.

The pups lay in a soft heap. The parrot no longer hung head downward,
but rested in his cage in a normal position, one eye fixed steadily on
Gethryn, the other sheathed in a bluish-white eyelid, every wrinkle of
which spoke scorn of men and things.

For some time Gethryn had been half-conscious of a piano sounding on
the floor below. It suddenly struck him now that the apartment under
his, which had been long vacant, must have found an occupant.

"Idiots!" he grumbled. "Playing at midnight! That will have to
stop. Singing too! We'll see about that!"

The singing continued, a girl's voice, only passably trained, but
certainly fresh and sweet.

Gethryn began to listen, reluctantly and ungraciously. There was a
pause. "Now she's going to stop. It's time," he muttered. But the
piano began again -- a short prelude which he knew, and the voice was
soon in the midst of the Dream Song from "La Belle Helene."