Noting this, Angelo approached the door with silent footsteps, opened it a crack and demanded in a hoarse whisper:
“Who’s there?”
“Only I, your friend, Swen,” came in a large round voice.
“Swen Swenson! The Swedish night hawk!” Angelo shouted, throwing the door wide and extending both hands in greeting: “Who could be more welcome at a time like this?”
“What time?”
The youth who asked this question as he entered was a near giant in stature. His head was crowned with a shock of yellow hair. His cheeks were as rosy as a country child’s. His blue eyes were wide and smiling.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Angelo with a flourish, “allow me to present the big Swede who will write the music for our immortal masterpiece!
“Perhaps—” His eyes circled the room. “Perhaps you believe that the Scandinavians are not musicians. You are mistaken. Only recall Jenny Lind and Ole Bull and Eduard Grieg!
“But here—” He stood on tiptoe to touch that shock of yellow hair. “Here shall rest the richest crown of all!”
“It may be so,” grumbled Swen, as a broad grin belied his assumed ill humor. “But if you don’t explain I’ll crown you with a chair.”