One day, however, the inevitable happened: Cyril came home unexpectedly.
The man heard the piano from William's floor, and with a surprised
ejaculation he hurried upstairs two steps at a time. At the door he
stopped in amazement.
Billy was at the piano, but she was not playing "rag-time," "The Storm,"
nor yet "The Maiden's Prayer." There was no music before her, but under
her fingers "big bass notes" very much like Cyril's own, were marching
on and on to victory. Billy's face was rapturously intent and happy.
"By Jove--Billy!" gasped the man.
Billy leaped to her feet and whirled around guiltily.
"Oh, Mr. Cyril--I'm so sorry!"
"Sorry!--and you play like that!"
"No, no; I'm not sorry I played. It's because you--found me."
Billy's cheeks were a shamed red, but her eyes were defiantly brilliant,
and her chin was at a rebellious tilt. "I wasn't doing any--harm; not if
you weren't here--with your NERVES!"
The man laughed and came slowly into the room.
"Billy, who taught you to play?"
"No one. I can't play. I can only pick out little bits of things in C."
"But you do play. I just heard you."
Billy shrugged her shoulders.
"That was nothing. It was only what I had heard. I was trying to make it
sound like--yours."
"And, by George! you succeeded," muttered Cyril under his breath; then
aloud he asked: "Didn't you ever study music?"
Billy's eyes dimmed.
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