But Polly and Jasper wouldn't have cared had they known it, as long as
they had their own delightful little music room to themselves--as they
played over and over all the dear old pieces, and Polly revelled in
everything that she was so afraid she had forgotten.
"I really haven't lost it, Jasper!" she would exclaim radiantly, after
finishing a concerto, and dropping her hands idly on the keys. "And I
was _so_ afraid I'd forgotten it entirely. Just think, I haven't
played that for three months, Jasper King."
"Well, you haven't forgotten a bit of it," declared Jasper, just as
glad as she was. "You didn't make any mistakes, hardly, Polly."
"Oh, yes, I made some," said Polly, honestly, whirling around on the
piano stool to look at him.
"Oh, well, only little bits of ones," said Jasper; "those don't
signify. I wish father could have heard that concerto. What a pity he
went out just before you began it."
But somebody else, on the other side of the partition between the
little music room and the big parlour, had heard, and he pulled his
black beard thoughtfully with his long fingers, then pricked up his
ears to hear more. And it was funny how, almost every day, whenever the
first notes on the piano struck up in Mr. King's little music room, the
big fat man, who was so tired with his season of hard work, never
seemed to think that he could rest as well as in that particular corner
up against that partition.
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