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.”