Billy, too, rose to her feet. Her face was flushed and her eyes were
shining. Her lips quivered with emotion. As was always the case, Cyril's
music had carried her quite out of herself.
"Oh, thank you, thank you," she sighed. "You don't know--you can't know
how beautiful it all is--to me!"
"Thank you. Then surely now you'll play to me," he returned.
A look of real distress came to Billy's face.
"But I can't--not what you heard the other day," she cried remorsefully.
"You see, I was--only improvising."
Cyril turned quickly.
"Only improvising! Billy, did you ever write it down--any of your
improvising?"
An embarrassed red flew to Billy's face.
"Not--not that amounted to--well, that is, some--a little," she
stammered.
"Let me see it."
"No, no, I couldn't--not YOU!"
Again the rare smile lighted Cyril's eyes.
"Billy, let me see that paper--please."
Very slowly the girl turned toward the music cabinet. She hesitated,
glanced once more appealingly into Cyril's face, then with nervous haste
opened the little mahogany door and took from one of the shelves a sheet
of manuscript music. But, like a shy child with her first copy book, she
held it half behind her back as she came toward the piano.
"Thank you," said Cyril as he reached far out for the music. The next
moment he seated himself again at the piano.
Pages:
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150