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There's something I always meant to do." "Never mind now," said Mavis soothingly. "But I do. It is something to mind about I never stood 'Turpsichor' a noo coat of paint." "Don't worry about it." "I always promised I would, but kep' putting it off an' off, an' now she'll never get it from me. Poor old 'Turpsichor'!"
And mind you come and tell me if he's won." Mavis thanked her wheezing, kind-hearted friend, and promised that she would return directly she had any news. Then, with hope in her heart, she hurried to the well-remembered academy, where she had sought work so many eventful months ago. As before, she looked into the impassive face of "Turpsichor" while she waited for the door to be answered.
"Turpsichor" had then been sold cheap to a man who had started a tea-garden, in the vain hope of reviving the glories of those forgotten institutions; when he had drifted into bankruptcy, she had been knocked down for a song to a second-hand shop, where she had been bought for next to nothing by Mr Poulter as "the very thing."
She had never quite lost touch with the elderly accompanist; they had sent each other cards at Christmas and infrequently exchanged picture postcards, Miss Nippett's invariably being a front view of "Poulter's," with Mr Poulter on the steps in such a position as not to obscure "Turpsichor" in the background.
The two women walked together to the gate, when Miss Nippett hobbled off to the left. As Mavis turned to the right, she glanced at Mr Poulter, who was still standing on the steps; he was gazing raptly at "Turpsichor."
Mavis's request surprised him almost as much as if he had been told that "Turpsichor" herself ached to waltz with him in the publicity of a long night. "I don't believe she's very long to live," said Mavis. "If you could make her a partner, merely in an honorary sense, it would make her last days radiantly happy." "It might be done, my dear," mused Mr Poulter.
When a move was made to the ballroom, Miss Nippett whispered to Mavis: "If Mr Poulter wins the great cotillion prize competition 'e's goin' in for, I 'ope to stand 'Turpsichor' a clean, and a new coat of paint."
Mavis explained her errand, but had some difficulty in convincing even kindly Mr Poulter of Miss Nippett's ambitious leanings: in the course of years, he had come to look on his devoted accompanist very much as he regarded "Turpsichor" who stood by the front door.
Now she stood in the entrance hall of the academy, where, it can truthfully be said, that no heathen goddess received so much adoration and admiration as was bestowed on "Turpsichor" by Mr Poulter and Miss Nippett. To these simple souls, it was the finest work of art to be found anywhere in the world, while the younger amongst the pupils regarded the forlorn statue with considerable awe.
Miss Nippett soon forgot her neglect of "Turpsichor" and fell into a further doze. When she next awoke, she asked: "Would you mind drawing them curtains?" "Like that?" "You are good to me: reely you are." "Nonsense!" "But then you ought to be: you've got a good man to love you an' give you babies." "What is it you want?" asked Mavis sadly. "Can you see the 'Scrubbs'?" "The prison?"
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