"You will learn to cut them off?"
Georg bowed.
"Now you understand why I must give up the orchestra. If you decide to keep on without me, perhaps, sometime—"
He was turning away with a kingly wave of the hand, his last sentence unfinished, when a question from Peter recalled him to the second and most distressing part of his mission.
"You'll have your party to-morrow afternoon? We needn't play on things, you know."
The blood mounted to Georg's forehead, and his fingers twitched uncomfortably; but he managed to speak so boldly that his listeners were quite unaware of his struggle.
"I am glad you mentioned the party, Peter, for I had nearly forgotten it. No, I won't have any party, and I must tell you—at least, father says—that—that Hans and Otto and Gretchen and Leopold must not come to my house any more. Of course," he added hastily, seeking to drown the gasps of his troopers, "it isn't that you're not good enough and nice enough for me to play with, but father says that you four are very musical, and you might make me musical too; but Frieda and Peter can come, for they are dull."
"I hate your old tunes and notes, anyway," protested Peter, much injured; but Frieda cut him short with the excited proposal,—
"Let's have your party for Peter and me and you, to-morrow!"
"Have your party! Have your party!" sneered Otto; and Hans informed Georg in biting tones that he wouldn't forget this when his birthday came next month.