"I rapped up Mitchell, who's sick in his studio upstairs, and got his flute," he whispered to Waller. "If you think my father can play you should hear Uncle Nat Gill," and he walked toward Nathan, the flute held out toward him. The old gentleman woke to consciousness at the sight of the instrument, and a slight flush overspread his face. "Oh, Oliver! Really, gentlemen--I--Of course, I love the instrument, but here among you all--" and he looked up in a helpless way. "No, no, Uncle Nat," cried Oliver, pressing the flute into Nathan's hand. "We won't take any excuse. There is no one in my town, gentlemen," and he faced the others, "who can play as he does. Please, Uncle Nat--just for me; it's so long since I heard you play," and he caught hold of Nathan's arm to lift him to his feet. "You are quite right, my son," cried Richard, "and I will play his accompaniment." Oliver's announcement and Richard's endorsement caused a stir as great as Richard's own performance. A certain curiosity took possession of the room, quite distinct from the spirit of merriment which had characterized it before. Many of the men now left their seats and began crowding about the piano--red cardinals, cavaliers, nobles, and black-coated guests looking over each other's shoulders. Everybody was getting more and more mystified. "Really, Fred," whispered Waller, who still sat quietly watching the two visitors--he had not taken his eyes from them since Richard in his enthusiasm sprang forward to grasp Simmons's hand--, "this is the most ridiculous thing I ever saw in my life. First comes this fossil thoroughbred who outplays Simmons, and now comes this old nut-cracker with his white tow-hair sticking out in two straight mops, who is going to play the flute! What in thunder is coming next? Pretty soon one of them will be pulling rabbits out of somebody's ears, or rubbing gold watches into canary birds." Nathan took the flute from Oliver's outstretched hand, bowed in a timid way like a school-boy about to speak a piece, turned it over carefully, tried the silver keys to see that they responded easily to the pressure of his fingers, and raised it to his lips. Richard picked up the violin and whispered to Munson, with whom he had been talking--the one member who could play the piano as well as he could paint or fence--who nodded his head in assent. Then, with Richard leading, the four--one of the guests a 'cellist of distinction took Max Unger's place--began Max's arrangement of the overture to "Fidelio"; the one Richard and Nathan had played so often together in the old parlor in Kennedy Square, with Miss Clendenning and Unger: an arrangement which had now become known to most musical amateurs.