She was closing the door when it opened again, just revealing Mary Ann's face.
"Well?" he said, amused.
"But I'll do your boots all the same, Mr. Lancelot." And the door closed with a bang.
They did not meet again. On the Monday afternoon the vicar duly came and took Mary Ann away. All Baker's Terrace was on the watch, for her story had now had time to spread. The weather remained bright. It was cold but the sky was blue. Mary Ann had borne up wonderfully, but she burst into tears as she got into the cab.
"Sweet, sensitive little thing!" said Baker's Terrace.
"What a good woman you must be, Mrs. Leadbatter," said the vicar, wiping his spectacles.
As part of Baker's Terrace, Lancelot witnessed the departure from his window, for he had not left after all.
Beethoven was barking his short snappy bark the whole time at the unwonted noises and the unfamiliar footsteps; he almost extinguished the canary, though that was clamorous enough.
"Shut up, you noisy little devils!" growled Lancelot. And taking the comic opera he threw it on the dull fire. The thick sheets grew slowly blacker and blacker, as if with rage; while Lancelot thrust the five five-pound notes into an envelope addressed to the popular composer, and scribbled a tiny note:—
"Dear Peter,—If you have not torn up that cheque I shall be glad of it by return. Yours,