“The rest of us are only imitators,” Jeff declared to Evelyn, as he stood near her, softly trying his strings.  “Charlotte’s the best, and Andy’s very good indeed; but it’s only Celia who goes to hear big music and sits with the tears rolling down her cheeks, while the rest of us are wondering what on earth it all means.”

Evelyn, leaning back among the pillows of the wide couch, called Lucy softly, motioning her to a seat by her side.

Lucy came quickly, pleased by Evelyn’s notice.  She in her turn had been regarding Evelyn as a monopolist of everybody’s attention and had made up her mind not to like her.  But now she sank into the place by Evelyn’s side, and accepted the delicate touch of Evelyn’s hand on hers as recognition at last that here was another girl fit to make friends with.

“Don’t they play well?” whispered Evelyn, as the music came to a sudden stop that Celia might criticise the playing of a difficult passage.

“She doesn’t think so,” called Just, softly, having caught the whisper.  He indicated his elder sister.  “She won’t let me boom things with my viol the way I’d like to.  What’s the use of playing the biggest instrument if you can’t make the biggest noise?”

“Solo, by the double-bass!” cried Andy; and the whole orchestra, except the first violin of the leader, burst into a boisterous rendering of a popular street song, in which Just sawed forth the leading part, while the others kept up a rattling staccato accompaniment.  Evelyn and Lucy became breathless with laughter, and Mr. and Mrs. Birch, who had just slipped into the room, joined in the merriment.

“There you are,” chuckled Jeff.  “That’s what you get when you give the donkey the solo part among the farmyard performers.”

“He can sing as well as the peacock,” retorted Just, with spirit.

“We were right in the middle of the ’Hungarian Intermezzo,’” explained Celia to the newcomers.  “I stopped them to tell them why they needed to look more carefully to their phrasing, and the children burst into this sort of thing.  What shall I do with them?”

“It’s a great relief to feel that they’re not altogether grown up, after all,” said Mr. Birch, helping himself to his favourite easy chair near the fireplace.  “There are times when we feel a strong suspicion that we haven’t any children any more.  Moments like these assure us that we are mistaken.  Go on with your ‘Intermezzo,’ but give us another nursery song before you are through.”

“Nursery song!  That’s pretty good,” said Jeff, in Just’s ear, and that sixteen-year-old mumbled in reply, “I can throw you over my shoulder just the same.”

“Boys, come!  We’re ready!” called Celia, and the music began again.

“Are you getting tired, dear?” asked Mrs. Birch of Evelyn, when the “Intermezzo” was finished, noting the flush on the delicate cheek.  Evelyn looked up brightly.