“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.
Twice he played the little song through carefully, slowly.
“Now, sing it,” he directed.
Falteringly, in a very faint voice, and with very many breaths taken where they should not have been taken, Billy obeyed.
“When we want to show off your song, Billy, we won't ask you to sing it,” observed the man, dryly, when she had finished.
Billy laughed and dimpled into a blush.