“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.
Once more Pete swept and garnished the house, and once more Dong Ling spoiled uncounted squares of chocolate trying to make the baffling fudge. Bertram said that the entire Strata was a-quiver. Not but that Billy and Aunt Hannah had visited there before, but that this was different. They were to come at noon this time. This visit was not to be a tantalizing little piece of stiffness an hour and a half long. It was to be a satisfying, whole-souled matter of half a day's comradeship, almost like old times. So once more the roses graced the rooms, and a flaring pink bow adorned Spunkie's fat neck; and once more Bertram placed his latest “Face of a Girl” in the best possible light. There was still a difference, however, for this time Cyril did not bring any music down to the piano, nor display anywhere a copy of his newest book.