"Peacock's voice, too." Dr.Chantel struck a few jangling chords, and skipping adroitly over sick notes, ran a flourish.

The billiard-players joined the circle, with absent, serious faces.

The singer cleared his throat, took on a preternatural solemnity, and began.

In a dismal, gruff voice, he proclaimed himself a miner, deep, deep down:-- "And few, I trow, of my being know, And few that an atom care!" His hearers applauded this gloomy sentiment, till his cheeks flushed again with honest satisfaction.

But in the full sweep of a brilliant interlude, Chantel suddenly broke down.
"I cannot," he declared sharply.