He addressed them all by their first names, and drew out a cigar. Kirkwood was smoking his pipe. Phil held a match for her uncle and placed a copper ash-tray on the table at his elbow. Rose continued her search for a piece of music, and Nan curled herself on the corner of a davenport that occupied one side of the room under the open bookshelves. "This looks like a full session; first we've had for some time," remarked Amzi. "Been playing, Rose?" "No; Phil's trying to remember a tune. Whistle it, Phil." Phil whistled it, her eyes twinkling. "Sounds like a dead march done in ragtime," suggested Nan, whose ear was said to be faulty. "All the great masters will be done over pretty soon by the raggists," declared Phil. "Spoken like the Philistine you are not, Phil," said Kirkwood. "What you were trying to whistle is the 'Lucia Sextette' upside down. Rose, let's have the 'Mozart Minuet' we used to play. We haven't had it for moons." She played it, Phil turning the music. Then Kirkwood was reminded of the existence of his 'cello. Amzi watched him tuning it, noted the operation restlessly, and then rose demanding:-- "Nan, where's my flute? Seems to me I left it here the last time we played." This was a joke. It had been in the house at least six years. Phil whistled a few bars from a current light opera, and pretended to be absorbed in an old etching of Beethoven that hung over the piano. She glanced covertly at her uncle, who knew perfectly well that Phil was laughing at him. Nan, meanwhile, produced the flute. It was in this fashion that the trio was usually organized. "Bad night for asthma, but let's tackle some of the good old ones," said Amzi.