"Ah!" he sighs. "France ... yes ... Paris. Yes." For he lives only in dreams of the real Paris. He hopes soon to return there. He hoped soon to return there thirty years ago. He hates his work. He does not want to play the music of London, but the music of Paris. If he must play in London, he would choose to play in Covent Garden orchestra, where his fancy would have full freedom. When he says Music, he means Massenet, Gounod, Puccini, Mascagni, Leoncavallo. He plays Wagner with but little interest. He plays Viennese opera with a positive snort. Ragtime--well, I do not think he is conscious of playing it; he fiddles mechanically for that. But when, by a rare chance, the bill contains an excerpt from Pagliacci, La Boheme, or Butterfly, then he lives. He cares nothing for the twilight muse of your intellectual moderns--Debussy, Maurice Ravel, Scriabine, and such. For him music is melody, melody, melody--laughter, quick tears, and the graceful surface of things; movement and festal colour. He seldom rises before noon--unless rehearsals compel--and then, after a coffee, he wanders forth, smoking the cigarette of Algeria, and humming, always humming, the music that is being hummed in Paris. He is picturesque, in his own way--shabby, but artistically shabby. At one o'clock you will see him in "The Dieppe," taking their shilling table d'hote _dejeuner_, with a half-bottle of _vin ordinaire_; and he will sit over the coffee perhaps until three o'clock, murmuring the luscious, facile phrases of Massenet. His great friend is the Irishman who plays the drum, for they have this in common: they are both exiles. They are both "saving up" to return home. They have both been "saving up" for the last twenty years. In each case there is a girl.... Or there was a girl twenty years ago. She is waiting for them--one in Paris, and the other in Wicklow. At least, so they believe. Sometimes, though, I think they must doubt; for I have met them together in the Hotel Suisse putting absinthes away carelessly, hopelessly; and a man does not play with absinthe when a girl is waiting for him. AN ITALIAN NIGHT CLERKENWELL _CLERKENWELL_ _Deep in the town of window smiles-- You shall not find it, though you seek; But over many bricky miles It draws me through the wearing week. Its panes are dim, its curtains grey, It shows no heartsome shine at dusk; For gas is dear, and factory pay Makes small display: On the small wage she earns she dare not be too gay!_ _A loud saloon flings golden light Athwart the wet and greasy way, Where, every happy Sunday night, We meet in mood of holiday. She wears a dress of claret glow That's thinly frothed with bead and lace. She buys this lace in Jasmine Row, A spot, you know, Where luxuries of lace for a mere nothing go._