It
seemed not, however. There was a primeval piano in his sitting-room,
and on the second morning it suited his mood to sit down at this and
sing 'Asthore', the fruity pathos of which ballad appealed to him
strongly at this time, accompanying himself by an ingenious arrangement
in three chords. He had hardly begun, however, when Mr Dorman appeared,
somewhat agitated.
'If you don't mind, Mr Owen,' he said. 'I forgot to tell you. There's a
lit'ery gent boarding with me in the room above, and he can't bear to
be disturbed.'
A muffled stamping from the ceiling bore out his words.
'Writing a book he is,' continued Mr Dorman. 'He caught young George a
clip over the ear-'ole yesterday for blowing his trumpet on the stairs.
Gave him sixpence afterwards, and said he'd skin him if he ever did it
again. So, if you don't mind--'
'Oh, all right,' said Owen. 'Who is he?'
'Gentleman of the name of Prosser.'
Owen could not recollect having come across any work by anyone of that
name; but he was not a wide reader; and, whether the man above was a
celebrity or not, he was entitled to quiet.
'I never heard of him,' he said, 'but that's no reason why I should
disturb him. Let him rip. I'll cut out the musical effects in future.'
The days passed smoothly by. The literary man remained invisible,
though occasionally audible, tramping the floor in the frenzy of
composition.
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