Twice she had asked him to play for her; but each time he had begged to
be excused, courteously, but decidedly.
"It's no use to tease," Bertram had interposed once, with an airy wave
of his hands. "This lion always did refuse to roar to order. If you
really must hear him, you'll have to slip up-stairs and camp outside his
door, waiting patiently for such crumbs as may fall from his table."
"Aren't your metaphors a little mixed?" questioned Cyril irritably.
"Yes, sir," acknowledged Bertram with unruffled temper, "but I don't
mind if Billy doesn't. I only meant her to understand that she'd have to
do as she used to do--listen outside your door."
Billy's cheeks reddened.
"But that is what I sha'n't do," she retorted with spirit. "And,
moreover, I still have hopes that some day he'll play to me."
"Maybe," conceded Bertram, doubtfully; "if the stool and the piano and
the pedals and the weather and his fingers and your ears and my watch
are all just right--then he'll play."
"Nonsense!" scowled Cyril. "I'll play, of course, some day. But I'd
rather not today." And there the matter had ended. Since then Billy had
not asked him to play.
CHAPTER XXV
THE OLD ROOM--AND BILLY
Thanksgiving was to be a great day in the Henshaw family. The Henshaw
brothers were to entertain. Billy and Aunt Hannah had been invited to
dinner; and so joyously hospitable was William's invitation that it
would have included the new kitten and the canary if Billy would have
consented to bring them.
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