Cyril frowned, and got up abruptly. Still frowning, he turned to a bookcase near him and began to take down and examine some of the books.
Bertram twinkled and glanced at Billy.
“Which is it, Cyril?” he called with cheerful impertinence; “stool, piano, or audience that is the matter to-night?”
Only a shrug from Cyril answered.
“You see,” explained Bertram, jauntily, to Arkwright, whose eyes were slightly puzzled, “Cyril never plays unless the piano and the pedals and the weather and your ears and my watch and his fingers are just right!”
“Nonsense!” scorned Cyril, dropping his book and walking back to his chair. “I don't feel like playing to-night; that's all.”
“You see,” nodded Bertram again.
“I see,” bowed Arkwright with quiet amusement.
“I believe—Mr. Mary Jane—sings,” observed Billy, at this point, demurely.
“Why, yes, of course,” chimed in Aunt Hannah with some nervousness. “That's what she—I mean he—was coming to Boston for—to study music.”