“Well, that was the confession,” resumed Cyril. “Then I came out flat-footed and said that I wanted to marry her—but there is where I didn't get the encouragement!”
“Indeed! I'm afraid I wasn't very considerate,” stammered Billy.
“No, you weren't,” agreed Cyril, moodily. “I didn't know but now—” his voice softened a little—“with this new happiness of yours and Bertram's that—you might find a little encouragement for me.”
“And I will,” cried Billy, promptly. “Tell me about her.”
“I did—last winter,” reproached the man, “and you were sure I was deceiving myself. You drew the gloomiest sort of picture of the misery I would take with a wife.”
“I did?” Billy was laughing very merrily now.
“Yes. You said she'd always be talking and laughing when I wanted to be quiet, and that she'd want to drag me out to parties and plays when I wanted to stay at home; and—oh, lots of things. I tried to make it clear to you that—that this little woman wasn't that sort. But I couldn't,” finished Cyril, gloomily.
“But of course she isn't,” declared Billy, with quick sympathy. “I—I didn't know—WHAT—I was—talking about,” she added with emphatic distinctness. Then she smiled to think how little Cyril knew how very true those words were. “Tell me about her,” she begged again. “I know she must be very lovely and brilliant, and of course a wonderful musician. YOU couldn't choose any one else!”
To her surprise Cyril turned abruptly and began to play again. A nervous little staccato scherzo fell from his fingers, but it dropped almost at once into a quieter melody, and ended with something that sounded very much like the last strain of “Home, Sweet Home.” Then he wheeled about on the piano stool.
“Billy, that's exactly where you're wrong—I DON'T want that kind of wife. I don't want a brilliant one, and—now, Billy, this sounds like horrible heresy, I know, but it's true—I don't care whether she can play, or not; but I should prefer that she shouldn't play—much!”