"
"Thank you," murmured Billy.
Cyril shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh, you know very well what I mean," he defended. "I've heard you;
that's all."
"When?"
"That doesn't signify."
Billy was silent for a moment, her eyes gravely studying his face. Then
she asked:
"Were you long--on that stairway?"
"Eh? What? Oh!" Cyril's forehead grew suddenly pink. "Well?" he finished
a little aggressively.
"Oh, nothing," smiled the girl. "Of course people who live in glass
houses must not throw stones."
"Very well then, I did listen," acknowledged the man, testily. "I liked
what you were playing. I hoped, down-stairs later, that you'd play it
again; but you didn't. I came to-day to hear it."
Again Billy's heart sung within her--but again her temper rose, too.
"I don't think I feel like it," she said sweetly, with a shake of her
head. "Not to-day."
For a brief moment Cyril stared frowningly; then his face lighted with
his rare smile.
"I'm fairly checkmated," he said, rising to his feet and going straight
to the piano.
For long minutes he played, modulating from one enchanting composition
to another, and finishing with the one "all chords with big bass notes"
that marched on and on--the one Billy had sat long ago on the stairs to
hear.
"There! Now will you play for me?" he asked, rising to his feet, and
turning reproachful eyes upon her.
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