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writing school on the second floor of a neat but shabby house.
    And then the more welcoming facade of the clockmaker’s with the clocks nodding behind the glass window. An archway leads back to the clockmaker’s workshop behind and a side door,
usually unlocked, gives access to a narrow flight of stairs to the floors above. On the first floor is Demsey’s school room; on the second lives a widow who supports her children by painting
delicate miniatures; and in the attic is Demsey’s own lodging. This was old Harris’s dancing school, bequeathed five years since to his last and favourite apprentice. He had the
consideration to die at home so Demsey is spared the trial of his old master muttering instructions and admonitions over his shoulder, as he did in life.
    I climbed the stairs. They creaked and gave advertisement of my coming so that when I pushed at the half-open door of the school room, Demsey was already looking towards me. He stood in the
middle of the long narrow room, surrounded by brilliant branches of candles. The chairs had been stood in line around the walls and Demsey had evidently been gathering up orange peel abandoned by
his scholars. Scuff marks in the polish of the floor gave the room an abandoned forlorn air.
    I trod carefully across the polished boards towards him, knowing from experience how easy it was to slip when not wearing dancing slippers. Demsey – silently waiting my approach –
was in his formal best, all peacock blue in his coat and a darker turquoise in his knee breeches that fitted as snugly as any mama might fear. He watched me coolly. “Is it raining,
Charles?”
    Looking down, I saw that my boots were leaving a muddy trail. That and his cool manner, so unlike his normal mien, disconcerted me. “I am missing a lesson because of you,” I snapped.
“I can ill afford to lose that money!”
    I saw a frown between his brows; I went on without pause. “I have faced down two ruffians with cudgels and I have been threatened with a pistol. I have been accused of complicity in an
assault and informed that sooner or later I must leave this town and find another place. And all because of your schemes!”
    He tossed the orange peel into a basket laden with such rubbish.
    “Did you tangle with my surprise for Nichols, then?” he said with a frankness that took my breath away. “I’m sorry if you were inconvenienced.”
    “Inconvenienced!”
    “But he cannot think you have any quarrel with him.”
    “He knows me to be a friend of yours. That is cause enough.”
    “As for the other matter…” He frowned again. “I did not think him man enough to own a weapon.”
    “Not him! His crony, Le Sac, came upon us, all eager to defend his bosom friend and to find reason to discredit me and run me out of town. God knows why he dislikes me so!”
    “I daresay it is because you have more true musicianship in your little finger than he has in his entire body.”
    He spoke in such a casual manner that I hardly took his words in at first. He gave me a sideways glance as he straightened the last of the chairs.
    “I do not flatter you, Charles. I save that for my pupils. If I may give you one piece of advice, it is to abandon those abominable compositions and to concentrate upon what you do best
– managing people. If Le Sac was not here, the gentlemen would all be running to you to direct the Concerts and to tell them what to do in that charming manner of yours.” I fancied I
saw the trace of a smile. “Your greatest asset is tact, Charles. Le Sac is totally devoid of that admirable virtue but he contrives to escape condemnation because he is a Genius .”
    Astonished that he should speak to me in such a manner, I flung at him: “I do not need advice from you! And as for my compositions, I have had many compliments paid to them. I am thinking
of putting forth proposals for publication.”
    “No, no, don’t!” he said with a return of his usual impulsive manner, the first heat