A deeper flush came to Billy's face. Her chin rose a little; and an odd defiance flashed from her eyes. But almost instantly it was gone, and a slow smile had come to her lips.
“Yes, I know. Every one—says that Cyril hates women,” she observed demurely.
“Then, Billy, I sha'n't give up!” vowed Bertram, softly. “Sometime you WILL love me!”
“No, no, I couldn't. That is, I'm not going to—to marry,” stammered Billy.
“Not going to marry!”
“No. There's my music—you know how I love that, and how much it is to me. I don't think there'll ever be a man—that I'll love better.”
Bertram lifted his head. Very slowly he rose till his splendid six feet of clean-limbed strength and manly beauty towered away above the low chair in which Billy sat. His mouth showed new lines about the corners, and his eyes looked down very tenderly at the girl beside him; but his voice, when he spoke, had a light whimsicality that deceived even Billy's ears.
“And so it's music—a cold, senseless thing of spidery marks on clean white paper—that is my only rival,” he cried. “Then I'll warn you, Billy, I'll warn you. I'm going to win!” And with that he was gone.