“Too much temper,” he said. “She’s probably the type who’d throw acorns at you when she got mad.”
“You’re crazy,” Tink said with heat. With injured dignity he turned away from Nastee and then his cheeks flamed with humiliation. For evidently the sound of the altercation had carried to the dancing girls on the keyboard.
All four of them were regarding him with wide startled eyes. In their surprised consternation they lost the tempo of the music and huddled together whispering animatedly and peeking occasionally at Tink and Nastee.
The melody pouring from the piano became perceptively ragged. Peter Hardwicke brought his hand down in a desperate savage chord and then ran his fingers distractedly through his hair.
“Damn!” he muttered. “That doesn’t sound right at all.” He wiped his hands on the legs of his trousers and began playing again, repeating the passage that had broken down.
The elfin girls had recovered from their shock by this time. Responding to the music they came to life in a brilliantly spirited dance that was as lilting as a leaf in a breeze.
Once again the music was sweet and melodious and graceful.
The red haired girl flitted down the keyboard and twirled about in perfect time before Tink.
“It isn’t at all polite to stare at people,” she said over her shoulder.
“It’s not polite, but it’s fun,” Tink said. “What’s your name?”
The girl tossed her head saucily.
“What difference does it make to you?” She started to dance away.
“Wait a minute!” Tink cried. “I’ve got to know your name if you’re going to spend the afternoon in the park with me.”
Twirling, the girl danced slowly back to Tink. Her delicately chiseled chin was grimly firm.
“Who said I was going to the park with you?” she demanded.
“It was just an idea,” Tink said uneasily.
“It wasn’t a good one,” the girl said.
“All right,” Tink shrugged resignedly, “we’ll stay here and get acquainted. It won’t hurt to tell me your name, will it?”
The girl glanced up into Tink’s cheerfully smiling face and she missed a beat.
“No, I guess not,” she said, a little breathlessly. “I’m Jingle.”
“Then I’ll call you Jing,” Tink said promptly.
The red haired girl dropped her eyes and smiled. Then she wheeled away and twirled toward the opposite end of the keyboard, but in her excited confusion her feet skipped another beat.
The music stopped with a heavy discouraged crash. The young composer stood up and clenched his fists nervously.
“Something’s off,” he muttered. “What a time to get snagged. I’ve got to get this thing right.”
His wife came into the room then and saw him standing drumming his fingers on the top of the piano. “What’s the matter, Peter?” she asked anxiously.
“I’ll be darned if I know,” he answered, with a weary shake of his head. “Everything was going beautifully until I stopped to have that coffee. Now I’m missing something. I should have worked straight through.”
His wife turned away. “I’m sorry I bothered you,” she said in a small voice.
“Oh, honey, it’s not your fault. It’s just a case of nerves. When I think of how important this thing is, I can’t concentrate on anything.”
“I shouldn’t have bothered you,” Ann said. She held a handkerchief to her nose.
Peter crossed the room in two quick strides and took her in his arms. With one finger he lifted her chin until he was able to smile into her eyes. “Smile,” he said. “Please.”
She smiled tremulously.
“That’s better. Please don’t pay any attention to what I say, honey, when I’m all worked up like this. It’s my fault, I know, but I get tied up in a knot when the music isn’t coming right. Am I forgiven?”
With a sob, Ann buried her face against his tweed jacket.
“It was all my fault, Peter,” she cried, the words coming through his coat in an indistinct murmur.
Peter patted her shoulders awkwardly.
“Well, let’s don’t argue about that,” he said with a grin. “The big thing that Mr. and Mrs. Hardwicke have to do is get this overture set right. I’m going to knock off for ten or fifteen minutes and maybe I’ll have an inspiration when I get back to work.”
Tink took advantage of the interruption to make strides.
“Listen, Jing,” he said urgently, “you’ve no idea how beautiful the park is at this time of day. I can’t describe it to you, you’ve got to see it for yourself.”
“But I can’t,” Jing said, for the fifth time. She glanced apprehensively down the keyboard where her three companions were gossiping together in a tight little circle.
“They’re shocked enough as it is,” she said, “and besides I have to go to work when the music starts. There’s no one to take my place.”
Tink frowned and rested his chin in his hand. For fully a minute he remained thinking, then he leaped to his feet with a shout.
“I’ve got it,” he cried. “Nastee can take your place for a half hour or so. He catches on to things in a hurry.” Nastee who had been listening glumly to the discussion raised his head and stared at Tink with cynical amusement.
“What makes you think I will?” he sneered.
“Oh, he couldn’t,” Jing said hastily. “We’ve already caused enough trouble with the music this afternoon. We can’t mix things up anymore.”
“Nastee wouldn’t mix things up,” Tink said with fine assurance. “He has a very musical nature. Anyway, it will only be for a few minutes. Please.”
“Well—” Jing glanced timidly at her companions, “if it’s only for a few minutes—”
“Fine,” Tink cried. “Come on, Nastee, be a good sport.”
Nastee’s face was thoughtful, but sly lights lurked in his little eyes.
“I’ll do it,” he said. “I’m not such a bad guy, after all.”
“Wonderful!” Tink said gleefully. “You see, Jing, it’s all set.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t,” Jing said, “it really isn’t right.” She glanced doubtfully at Nastee. “Will you do your best to follow the music? It isn’t terribly difficult.”
“Sure,” Nastee said. “I’ll do my best.”
After another second of hesitation, Jing flung her streaming hair back with a toss of her head and sprang lightly to the top of the piano beside Tink.
“All right,” she said, “but only for a little while.”
Hand-in-hand they leaped to the window cord and swung to the window. With a tinkling laugh they were gone.
When Peter returned to the piano a half hour later, he noticed that the window facing the Park was open again. He closed it automatically, too absorbed with his musical problems to worry about trifles.
He flexed his fingers nervously and drew a deep breath. Then he struck the opening chord of the overture. As the sound swelled up from the piano he jerked his hands away as if the keys were suddenly red-hot.
Shaken, he listened in horror to the hideously sour chord that lingered in the room like a bad odor. A feverish light of desperation gleamed in his eye.
Never had he produced music like this.
Summoning his courage he attacked the piano again, striving mightily to infuse his composition with melody and harmony, but each succeeding chord was more objectionable than the last.
Everything was wrong! The melody was sour, the rhythm was jerky, the harmony was a travesty, and the complete score seemed suddenly an uninspired hodge-podge of din, discord and dissonance.
“What’s got into it!” Peter cried, burying his face in his hands. “It’s horrible, it’s sour, it’s all wrong!”
In desperation he leaped to his feet and scooped up the sheets of music in his hands. Trembling in every muscle he glared at them as if they were directly responsible for his predicament.