John Lansing Birch laid down his viola and bow, whirled about, and flung
out his arms in despair. "Oh, this crowd is hopeless!" he groaned.
"Never mind any other instrument, providing _yours_ is heard. This march
is supposed to die away in the distance! You murder it in front of the
house. That second violin--"
Here his wrath centered upon the red-cheeked, black-eyed young player.
The second violin returned his gaze with resentment. "What's the use of
my playing like a midsummer zephyr when Just's sawing away like mad on
the bass?" she retorted.
The first violin smiled pleasantly on the little group. "Let's try it
again," she suggested, "and see if we can please John Lansing better."
"You're all right," said Lansing, with a wave of his hand at Celia, "if
the rest of the strings wouldn't fight to drown you out. Charlotte plays
as if second violin were a solo part, with the rest as accompaniment."
Charlotte tucked her instrument under a sulky, round chin, raised her
bow and waited, her eyes on the floor. Celia, smiling, softly tried her
strings.
"That's it, precisely," began the leader, still with irritation.
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