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 was amazed at the glorified vision of everyday things. In Herr Gottfried's flat there was a model of Beethoven in plaster of Paris, a bed, and a tin wash-hand stand, a tiny bookshelf containing some tattered volumes of Reclame's Universal Bibliothek, a piano and six cane-bottomed chairs covered at the moment by the stout bodies of the six musicians—nothing here to light the world with wonder!—and yet to-night, Peter, sitting on a cushion in a dark corner watched the glories of Olympus; the music of heaven was in his ear and before him, laughing at him, smiling, vanishing only to reappear more rapturous and beautiful than ever was the lady, the wonderful and only lady.

His cheeks were hot and his heart was beating so loudly that it was surely no wonder that Herr Lutz had discovered his malady. The sextette came to an end and the six musicians sat, for a moment, silent on their chairs whilst they dragged themselves into the world that they had for a moment forsaken. That was a great instant of silence when every one in the room was concerned entirely with their souls and had forgotten that they so much as had bodies at all. Then Herr Lutz gathered his huge frame together, stuck his hand into his beard and cried aloud for drink.

Beer was provided—conversation was, for the next two hours, volcanic. When twelve o'clock struck in the church round the corner the meeting was broken up.

Herr Lutz said to Peter, “There is still the ‘verdammte’ fog. Together we will go part of the way.”

So they went together. But on the top of the dark and crooked staircase Herr Gottfried stopped Peter.

“Boy,” he said and he rubbed his nose with his finger as he always did when he was nervous and embarrassed, “I shouldn't go to the shop for a week or two if I were you.”

“Not go?” said Peter astonished.

“No—for reason why—well—who knows? The days come and they go, and again it will be all right for you. I should rub up the Editors, I should—”

“Rub up the Editors?” repeated Peter still confused.

“Yes—have other irons, you know—often enough other irons are handy—”

“Did Zanti tell you to say this to me?”