“Yes, it is,” murmured Billy, abstractedly.
There was a long pause, then Marie asked with shy hesitation:
“Do you think, Miss Billy—that he would care? I listened yesterday when he was playing to you. I was up here in your room, but when I heard the music I—I went out, on the stairs and sat down. Was it very—bad of me?”
Billy laughed happily.
“If it was, he can't say anything,” she reassured her. “He's done the same thing himself—and so have I.”
“HE has done it!”
“Yes. It was at his home last Thanksgiving. It was then that he found out—about my improvising.”
“Oh-h!” Marie's eyes were wistful. “And he cares so much now for your music!”
“Does he? Do you think he does?” demanded Billy.
“I know he does—and for the one who makes it, too.”