And if he could stoop to her, why should he not stoop to popular work, to devilling, to anything that would rid him of these sordid cares?  Bah! away with all pretences!

Was not this shamefaced pawning as vulgar, as wounding to the artist’s soul as the turning out of tawdry melodies?

Yes, he would escape from Mrs. Leadbatter and her Rosie; he would write to that popular composer—­he had noticed his letter lying on the mantel-piece the other day—­and accept the fifty pounds, and whatever he did he could do anonymously, so that Peter wouldn’t know, after all; he would escape from this wretched den and take a flat far away, somewhere where nobody knew him, and there he would sit and work, with Mary Ann for his housekeeper.  Poor Mary Ann!  How glad she would be when he told her!  The tears came into his eyes as he thought of her naive delight.  He would rescue her from this horrid, monotonous slavery, and—­happy thought—­he would have her to give lessons to instead of Rosie.

Yes, he would refine her; prune away all that reminded him of her wild growth, so that it might no longer humiliate him to think to what a companion he had sunk.  How happy they would be!  Of course the world would censure him if it knew, but the world was stupid and prosaic, and measured all things by its coarse rule of thumb.  It was the best thing that could happen to Mary Ann—­the best thing in the world.  And then the world wouldn’t know.

“Sw—­eet,” went the canary.  “Sw—­eet.”

This time the joy of the bird penetrated to his own soul—­the joy of life, the joy of the sunshine.  He rang the bell violently, as though he were sounding a clarion of defiance, the trumpet of youth.

Mary Ann knocked at the door, came in, and began to draw on her gloves.

He was in a mad mood—­the incongruity struck him so that he burst into a roar of laughter.

Mary Ann paused, flushed, and bit her lip.  The touch of resentment he had never noted before gave her a novel charm, spicing her simplicity.

He came over to her and took her half-bare hands.  No, they were not so terrible, after all.  Perhaps she had awakened to her iniquities, and had been trying to wash them white.  His last hesitation as to her worthiness to live with him vanished.

“Mary Ann,” he said, “I’m going to leave these rooms.”

The flush deepened, but the anger faded.  She was a child again—­her big eyes full of tears.  He felt her hands tremble in his.

“Mary Ann,” he went on, “how would you like me to take you with me?”

“Do you mean it, sir?” she asked eagerly.

“Yes, dear.”  It was the first time he had used the word.  The blood throbbed madly in her ears.  “If you will come with me—­and be my little housekeeper—­we will go away to some nice spot, and be quite alone together—­in the country if you like, amid the foxglove and the meadowsweet, or by the green waters, where you shall stand in the sunset and dream; and I will teach you music and the piano”—­her eyes dilated—­“and you shall not do any of this wretched nasty work any more.  What do you say?”