Oh, Marie, is it not
wonderful?"
"It is, dear--and it is not. Your songs could not help reaching
somebody's heart. There's nothing wonderful in that."
"Sweet flatterer!"
"But I mean it. They are beautiful; and so is--Mr. Henshaw's music."
"Yes, it is," murmured Billy, abstractedly.
There was a long pause, then Marie asked with shy hesitation:
"Do you think, Miss Billy--that he would care? I listened yesterday when
he was playing to you. I was up here in your room, but when I heard the
music I--I went out, on the stairs and sat down. Was it very--bad of
me?"
Billy laughed happily.
"If it was, he can't say anything," she reassured her. "He's done the
same thing himself--and so have I."
"HE has done it!"
"Yes. It was at his home last Thanksgiving. It was then that he found
out--about my improvising."
"Oh-h!" Marie's eyes were wistful. "And he cares so much now for your
music!"
"Does he? Do you think he does?" demanded Billy.
"I know he does--and for the one who makes it, too."
"Nonsense!" laughed Billy, with pinker cheeks. "It's the music, not the
musician, that pleases him. Mr. Cyril doesn't like women."
"He doesn't like women!"
"No. But don't look so shocked, my dear. Every one who knows Mr. Cyril
knows that."
"But I don't think--I believe it," demurred Marie, gazing straight into
Billy's eyes.
Pages:
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154