ive words under the bar of music.

"He's the only one I've ever known by that name," began Mary, surprised
by the unaccountable change in his manner, and unaware that it was a
swift flash of jealousy which caused it. To her amazement he turned
abruptly and walked away without even a curt "good morning."

She glanced after him in surprise, wondering at his abrupt leave-taking.
He was unmistakably offended about something. Sara Downs had told her
more than once that he was the most foolishly sensitive person she had
ever known, continually getting his feelings hurt over nothing, but this
was the first time Mary had ever had an exhibition of his sensitiveness.
Conscious that she had done nothing at which a reasonable person could
take offence, she looked after him with a desire to shake him for such
childishness. Then with a shrug of her shoulders she turned and started
homeward.

"That was such a bright, original way for Phil to remind me," she
thought, glancing again at the scrap of music. "And it is so absolutely
silly of Pink to say in such a tragic tone, 'And he called you _that_!'
There is nothing more personal in Phil's saying 'thou voice of my heart'
than there would be in his calling me 'Old Dog Tray' or a scrap of any
other song. He's always roaring questions at people in the shape of bits
of music. But, of course, Pink doesn't know that," she added a moment
afterward, wanting to be perfectly honest in her judgment of him. "But
even if he doesn't, it's none of his business what anybody calls me."

The episode, trifling as it was, made a difference in the answer that
she sent to Phil. Instead of trying to reply to his questions seriously,
as she had intended to do, she was so disdainful of Pink's behavior that
she concluded to ignore all mention of him. As she passed the Moredock
house, a phonograph, playing away inside for the amusement of little Don,
brayed out a rag-time refrain: "I want what I want, _when I want it_!"

Suddenly the inspiration seized her to answer Phil's reminder of her
silence in his own way. She would make a medley of fragments of songs.
How to begin it puzzled her, for the only song she could think of,
containing his name, was "Philip, my King," and she dismissed that
immediately, as impossible. All the way home she whistled under her
breath bits of old melodies, one suggesting another, until she had a
long list, and she made haste to write them down, for fear she might
forget. From the