Then perhaps you won't mind telling me why you don't like
me," he suggested.
Again Billy flushed.
"Why, I--I just don't; that's all," she faltered. Then she cried
aggrievedly: "There, now! you've made me be impolite; and I didn't mean
to be, truly."
"Of course not," assented the man; "and it wasn't impolite, because I
asked you for the information, you know. I may conclude then," he went
on with an odd twinkle in his eyes, "that I am merely classed with tripe
and rainy days."
"With--wha-at?"
"Tripe and rainy days. Those are the only things, if I remember rightly,
that you don't like."
The girl stared; then she chuckled.
"There! I knew I'd like you better if you'd only SAY something," she
beamed. "But let's not talk any more about that. Play to me; won't you?
You know you promised me 'The Maiden's Prayer.'"
Cyril stiffened.
"Pardon me, but you must be mistaken," he replied coldly. "I do not play
'The Maiden's Prayer.'"
"Oh, what a shame! And I do so love it! But you play other things;
I've heard you a little, and Mr. Bertram says you do--in concerts and
things."
"Does he?" murmured Cyril, with a slight lifting of his eyebrows.
"There! Now off you go again all silent and horrid!" chaffed Billy.
"What have I said now? Mr. Cyril--do you know what I think? I believe
you've got NERVES!" Billy's voice was so tragic that the man could but
laugh.
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