“How misplaced?” said the Signor, following him up the little oak staircase, narrow and broken into short flights, which led to the rooms in which the Minor Canon lived. The landing at the top of the staircase was as large as any of the rooms to which it led, with that curious misappropriation of space, but admirable success in picturesque effect, peculiar to old houses. There was a window in it, with a window-seat, and such a view as was not to be had out of St. Michael’s, and the walls were of dark wainscot, with bits of rich old carving here and there. The Canon’s little library led off from this and had the same view. It was lighted by three small, deep-set windows set in the outer wall of the Abbey, and consequently half as thick as the room was large. They were more like three pictures hung on the dark wall than mere openings for light, which indeed they supplied but sparingly, the thickness of the wall casting deep shadows between. And the walls, wherever they were visible, were dark oak, here and there shining with gleams of reflection, but making a sombre background, broken only by the russet colour of old books and the chance ornaments of gilding which embellished them. Mr. Ashford’s writing-table, covered with books and papers, stood in front of the centre window. There was room for a visitor on the inner side, between him and the bookcases on the further wall, and there was room for somebody in the deep recess of the window at his left hand; but that was all. “How misplaced?” the Signor repeated, coming in and taking possession of the window-seat. “He is not perhaps what you call a gentleman by birth, but he is a great deal better. You and I know gentlemen by birth who--but don’t let us talk blasphemy within the Precincts. I am a Tory. I take my stand upon birth and blood and primogeniture.” “And laugh at them?” “Oh, not at all; on the contrary, I think they are very good for the country; but you and I have known gentlemen by birth--Well! my young Purcell is not one of these, but sprung from the soil. He is a capital musician; he is a rising young man. In what is he worse than the daughter of a commonplace old soldier, a needy, faded gentleman of a Chevalier?” “Gently! gently! I cannot permit you to say anything against the Chevaliers. They are brave men, and men who have served their country----” “Better than a good musician serves his?” cried the Signor. “You will not assert as much. Better than we serve the country, who put a little tune and time into her, an idea of some thing better than fifes and drums?” “My dear Rossinetti,” said Mr. Ashford, with some heat, “England had music in her before a single maestro had ever come from the South, and will have after----”