“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.