"Mr. Arlt?" he said to the maid, in brief interrogation.
She nodded and stood aside to let him pass. Thayer's tread on the dim stairway showed his familiarity with the place, as did the prompt calling of his name which answered his knock.
Without laying down his pipe, Arlt rose to greet his guest.
"You were so late that I was afraid you were not coming."
Thayer took off his fur-lined coat and tossed it into a chair.
"Haven't you learned that I always get around?" he asked. "I was dining with a friend, and we took things lazily."
"And now you expect to sing?" Arlt's accent was rebuking.
"Yes. I walked down here to get myself into condition. How is it? Are you feeling nervous over the prospect?"
Arlt had seated himself at the grand piano which completely filled one end of the dreary room. Now he drew a protesting arpeggio from the black keys and shook his head.
"Oh, that is a terrible woman, that Mrs. Lloyd Avalons! She was here again, to-day, to tell me about the programme. What does she know of music? She refuses the Haydn Variations and demands a Liszt Rhapsodie. If you are not firm with her, she will end by making you sing The Holy City with a flute obligato."