“When I want to show off my song I sha'n't be singing it to you for the first time,” she pouted.
Cyril did not answer. He was playing over and over certain harmonies in the music before him.
“Hm-m; I see you've studied your counterpoint to some purpose,” he vouchsafed, finally; then: “Where did you get the words?”
The girl hesitated. The flush had deepened on her face.
“Well, I—” she stopped and gave an embarrassed laugh. “I'm like the small boy who made the toys. 'I got them all out of my own head, and there's wood enough to make another.'”
“Hm-m; indeed!” grunted the man. “Well, have you made any others?”
“One—or two, maybe.”
“Let me see them, please.”
“I think—we've had enough—for today,” she faltered.
“I haven't. Besides, if I could have a couple more to go with this, it would make a very pretty little group of songs.”