Basil looked into her blue eyes, and murmured, "It reminds me of the
music I am at work on."
"What is that?" cried Marjolaine. "It sounds beautiful--through the
wall."
The musician's enthusiasm was kindled; he grew eloquent. "It is by a
new German composer: a man called Beethoven. My old violin-master,
Kreutzer, sent it me.--Ah! These new Germans! They are so complicated;
so difficult. I am old-fashioned, you know. I had the honour of
playing under Mr. Haydn at the Salomon concerts. Yes! and in the very
first performance of his immortal Oratorio, 'The Creation,' at
Worcester. So perhaps I am prejudiced. Yet this new music is very
wonderful; very heart-searching." He stopped abruptly, realising he was
talking to deaf ears. Sir Peter came to his rescue.
"I don't know anything about your new-fangled fiddle-faddles; but, by
Jehoshaphat, Pringle, play me a hornpipe, and I 'll dance till your arms
drop off!"
He hummed the tune, and with amazing agility sketched a few steps, while
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn put up his quizzing glass and eyed him with a superior
smile. "Oh!" laughed Marjolaine, clapping her hands, "you must teach
me!"
"That I will, Missie! and the sooner the better."
Mrs. Poskett was furious. "No fool like an old fool," she whispered in
Ruth's ear.
Barbara, who had been up to Mrs. Poskett's gate to stroke Sempronius,
came running down with a little cry of horror. She pointed to the
frouzy figure of the Eyesore. "Look! The Eyesore 's going to smoke!"
And, sure enough, after removing an indescribable handkerchief, a greasy
newspaper, obviously containing his lunch, half an apple, a large piece
of cheese, a huge pocket-knife, and a lump of coal he had picked up in
the road, the Eyesore had dragged out a horrible little clay pipe and a
dreadful little paper packet of tobacco. The Walk stood petrified.
When the Eyesore smoked, everybody had to go indoors and shut their
windows.
"His poisonous tobacco!" cried Ruth. "Can you not speak to him,
Admiral?"
"I can, Madam, but he'll answer back."
"And then," said Mrs. Poskett somewhat tartly, "of course you are
helpless."
"Not at all, ma'am. I hope I can swear with any man; but--the ladies!"
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn had been observing the Eyesore. "Thank heaven," he
whispered, "his pipe won't draw."
For the Eyesore was trying to blow through the stem, was knocking his
pipe on the palm of his hand, was endeavouring to run a straw through
it: all without success. Finally, in an access of rage, he tossed it
aside and sullenly resumed his fishing. A sigh of relief went up from
the whole Walk. They were saved.
Now a quaint figure came slowly round the corner. "Ah!" cried Basil,
"here is our good Doctor Sternroyd!"
"With his books, as usual," added Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn. "What a brain!"
"Old dryasdust!" laughed Sir Peter. But pointing to the Doctor, Basil
motioned them all to silence.
And, to be sure, the Doctor was worth looking at. He was dressed in the
fashion of fifty years before. Indeed, I should doubt whether in all
those fifty years he had had a new suit of clothes. On his head was a
venerable hat of indefinite shape; under his left arm a great bundle of
old books; under his right a venerable umbrella of generous proportions,
which had once been green. Fortunately his coat had originally been
snuff-coloured, so that the spilled snuff made no difference to it. His
small-clothes were shabby; his lean shanks were encased in grey worsted
stockings, and the great silver buckles on his shoes were tarnished.
At the present moment, however, it was not so much his appearance as his
actions that arrested the Walk's attention. He had come in dreamily as
usual with his lack-lustre eyes seeing nothing in spite of their great
silver-rimmed spectacles. Suddenly his attention was attracted by
something lying at his feet. He stopped, picked it up laboriously, and
examined it minutely, pushing his spectacles over his forehead for the
purpose.
"Bless the man!" cried Mrs. Poskett. "He 's picked up the Eyesore's
filthy pipe!"
And now he was exhibiting all the symptoms of frantic joy. Utterly
unconscious of the people watching him, he indulged in delighted
chuckles, and his withered old legs quite independently of their
master's volition executed a sort of grotesque dance. He looked very
much like a crane that had caught a fish.
"But why the step-dance?" exclaimed Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn, with a laugh.