"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.
"Not enough to hurt me. I'm enjoying it so! Aren't large families lovely? I was so much younger than my brothers and sisters that by the time I was old enough to care about having good times like this on winter evenings they were all away at school or married. We never had anything so nice as a family orchestra, either. I wish I could play something."
"How about the piano?" asked Charlotte, who sat near. Evelyn's flush grew pinker.
"I can play a little," she said. "But you don't need the piano."
"Yes, we do. A piano would add ever so much. Next time we'll have our practice at home, and give you a part."