‘I will be down tomorrow,’ he had said reassuringly.  ’My opera is waited for with such impatience, you know.’

And, sure enough, about the hour of noon on the following day, Jimson might have been observed ascending the riverside road that goes from Padwick to Great Haverham, carrying in one hand a basket of provisions, and under the other arm a leather case containing (it is to be conjectured) the score of Orange Pekoe.  It was October weather; the stone-grey sky was full of larks, the leaden mirror of the Thames brightened with autumnal foliage, and the fallen leaves of the chestnuts chirped under the composer’s footing.  There is no time of the year in England more courageous; and Jimson, though he was not without his troubles, whistled as he went.

A little above Padwick the river lies very solitary.  On the opposite shore the trees of a private park enclose the view, the chimneys of the mansion just pricking forth above their clusters; on the near side the path is bordered by willows.  Close among these lay the houseboat, a thing so soiled by the tears of the overhanging willows, so grown upon with parasites, so decayed, so battered, so neglected, such a haunt of rats, so advertised a storehouse of rheumatic agonies, that the heart of an intending occupant might well recoil.  A plank, by way of flying drawbridge, joined it to the shore.  And it was a dreary moment for Jimson when he pulled this after him and found himself alone on this unwholesome fortress.  He could hear the rats scuttle and flop in the abhorred interior; the key cried among the wards like a thing in pain; the sitting-room was deep in dust, and smelt strong of bilge-water.  It could not be called a cheerful spot, even for a composer absorbed in beloved toil; how much less for a young gentleman haunted by alarms and awaiting the arrival of a corpse!

He sat down, cleared away a piece of the table, and attacked the cold luncheon in his basket.  In case of any subsequent inquiry into the fate of Jimson, It was desirable he should be little seen:  in other words, that he should spend the day entirely in the house.  To this end, and further to corroborate his fable, he had brought in the leather case not only writing materials, but a ream of large-size music paper, such as he considered suitable for an ambitious character like Jimson’s.  ’And now to work,’ said he, when he had satisfied his appetite.  ’We must leave traces of the wretched man’s activity.’  And he wrote in bold characters: 

     Orange pekoe. 
     Op. 17. 
     J. B. Jimson. 
     Vocal and p. f. score.

‘I suppose they never do begin like this,’ reflected Gideon; ’but then it’s quite out of the question for me to tackle a full score, and Jimson was so unconventional.  A dedication would be found convincing, I believe.  “Dedicated to” (let me see) “to William Ewart Gladstone, by his obedient servant the composer.”  And now some music:  I had better avoid the overture;