No sooner had I spoken than in came the two New York girls of whom I wrote as calling on me when I first arrived. We have become firm friends by this time. Over a cup of tea we four discussed the last Weingartner concert, and more especially Alexander Petschnikof. (I can never pronounce his name without wanting to sneeze.) He had played the Mozart Concerto and Bach's Chiaconna most acceptably, to judge from his reception. Since none of us were violinists we felt free to discuss his style and phrasing with all that intolerance which people are wont to employ when criticising things of which they themselves are ignorant.
Just as we were putting on our wraps Polly made a confession.
"Well, girls, I'll have to tell you the truth," she said. "I've been complained of to the police."
"Again?" said Louise, in a startled whisper.
"Again?" Edith and I echoed, aghast.
"And who is it this time?" demanded Edith. She has a way of recovering and getting at the root of things before any one else. She did not ask why. We all knew that there could be but one reason. Polly, usually the essence of demureness, turned and looked at us with hard, angry eyes.
"It's the Poet downstairs," she explained. "He says I'm ruining his inspirations by my barbaric pounding. Fancy that reaching Lescheticsky's ears! He says I'm 'at it' all day!"
"Outrageous!" cried Louise.
"Preposterous!" avowed Edith.
They were both following the laws of Lescheticsky.