Lancelot explained “hire” did not mean the “hire system.”  But the idea of acquiring the piano, having once fired Mrs. Leadbatter’s brain, could not be extinguished.  The unexpected conclusion arrived at was that she was to purchase the piano on the hire system, allowing it to stand in Lancelot’s room, and that five shillings a week should be taken off his rent in return for six lessons of an hour each, one of the hours counterbalancing the gas grievance.  Reviewing the bargain, when Mrs. Leadbatter was gone, Lancelot did not think it at all bad for him.

“Use of the piano.  Gas,” he murmured, with a pathetic smile, recalling the advertisements he had read before lighting on Mrs. Leadbatter’s.  “And five shillings a week—­it’s a considerable relief!  There’s no loss of dignity either—­for nobody will know.  But I wonder what the governor would have said!”

The thought shook him with silent laughter; a spectator might have fancied he was sobbing.

But, after the lessons began, it might almost be said it was only when a spectator was present that he was not sobbing.  For Rosie, who was an awkward, ungraceful young person, proved to be the dullest and most butter-fingered pupil ever invented for the torture of teachers; at least, so Lancelot thought, but then he had never had any other pupils, and was not patient.  It must be admitted, though, that Rosie giggled perpetually, apparently finding endless humour in her own mistakes.  But the climax of the horror was the attendance of Mrs. Leadbatter at the lessons, for, to Lancelot’s consternation, she took it for granted that her presence was part of the contract.  She marched into the room in her best cap, and sat, smiling, in the easy chair, wheezing complacently and beating time with her foot.  Occasionally she would supplement Lancelot’s critical observations.

“It ain’t as I fears to trust ’er with you, sir,” she also remarked about three times a week, “for I knows, sir, you’re a gentleman.  But it’s the neighbours; they never can mind their own business.  I told ’em you was going to give my Rosie lessons, and you know, sir, that they will talk of what don’t concern ’em.  And, after all, sir, it’s an hour, and an hour is sixty minutes, ain’t it, sir?”

And Lancelot, groaning inwardly, and unable to deny this chronometry, felt that an ironic Providence was punishing him for his attentions to Mary Ann.

And yet he only felt more tenderly towards Mary Ann.  Contrasted with these two vulgar females, whom he came to conceive as her oppressors, sitting in gauds and finery, and taking lessons which had better befitted their Cinderella—­the figure of Mary Ann definitely reassumed some of its antediluvian poetry, if we may apply the adjective to that catastrophic washing of the steps.  And Mary Ann herself had grown gloomier—­once or twice he thought she had been crying, though he was too numbed and apathetic to ask, and was incapable of suspecting that Rosie had anything to do with her tears.  He hardly noticed that Rosie had taken to feeding the canary; the question of how he should feed himself was becoming every day more and more menacing.  He saw starvation slowly closing in upon him like the walls of a torture-chamber.  He had grown quite familiar with the pawn-shop now, though he still slipped in as though his goods were stolen.