Clodd turned in delighted triumph to the others.

“Humbug!” growled Peter.

“It isn’t humbug,” cried Clodd indignantly. “She thought it was a bookcase—anybody would. You’ll be able to sit there and practise by the hour,” explained Clodd to Tommy. “When you hear anybody coming up the stairs, you can leave off.”

“How can she hear anything when she——” A bright idea occurred to Peter. “Don’t you think, Clodd, as a practical man,” suggested Peter insinuatingly, adopting the Socratic method, “that if we got her one of those dummy pianos—you know what I mean; it’s just like an ordinary piano, only you don’t hear it?”

Clodd shook his head. “No good at all. Can’t tell the effect she is producing.”

“Quite so. Then, on the other hand, Clodd, don’t you think that hearing the effect they are producing may sometimes discourage the beginner?”

Clodd’s opinion was that such discouragement was a thing to be battled with.

Tommy, who had seated herself, commenced a scale in contrary motion.

“Well, I’m going across to the printer’s now,” explained Clodd, taking up his hat. “Got an appointment with young Grindley at three. You stick to it. A spare half-hour now and then that you never miss does wonders. You’ve got it in you.” With these encouraging remarks to Tommy, Clodd disappeared.

“Easy for him,” muttered Peter bitterly. “Always does have an appointment outside the moment she begins.”

Tommy appeared to be throwing her very soul into the performance. Passers-by in Crane Court paused, regarded the first-floor windows of the publishing and editorial offices of Good Humour with troubled looks, then hurried on.

“She has—remarkably firm douch!” shouted the doctor into Peter’s ear. “Will see you—evening. Someting—say to you.”

The fat little doctor took his hat and departed. Tommy, ceasing suddenly, came over and seated herself on the arm of Peter’s chair.

“Feeling grumpy?” asked Tommy.

“It isn’t,” explained Peter, “that I mind the noise. I’d put up with that if I could see the good of it.”

“It’s going to help me to get a husband, dad. Seems to me an odd way of doing it; but Billy says so, and Billy knows all about everything.”

“I can’t understand you, a sensible girl, listening to such nonsense,” said Peter. “It’s that that troubles me.”

“Dad, where are your wits?” demanded Tommy. “Isn’t Billy acting like a brick? Why, he could go into Fleet Street to half a dozen other papers and make five hundred a year as advertising-agent—you know he could. But he doesn’t. He sticks to us. If my making myself ridiculous with that tin pot they persuaded him was a piano is going to please him, isn’t it common sense and sound business, to say nothing of good nature and gratitude, for me to do it? Dad, I’ve got a surprise for him. Listen.” And Tommy, springing from the arm of Peter’s chair, returned to the piano.

“What was it?” questioned Tommy, having finished. “Could you recognise it?”