CHAPTER VIII. M. J. OPENS THE GAME
On the morning after Cyril's first concert of the season, Billy sat sewing with Aunt Hannah in the little sitting-room at the end of the hall upstairs. Aunt Hannah wore only one shawl this morning,—which meant that she was feeling unusually well.
“Marie ought to be here to mend these stockings,” remarked Billy, as she critically examined a tiny break in the black silk mesh stretched across the darning-egg in her hand; “only she'd want a bigger hole. She does so love to make a beautiful black latticework bridge across a yawning white china sea—and you'd think the safety of an army depended on the way each plank was laid, too,” she concluded.
Aunt Hannah smiled tranquilly, but she did not speak.
“I suppose you don't happen to know if Cyril does wear big holes in his socks,” resumed Billy, after a moment's silence. “If you'll believe it, that thought popped into my head last night when Cyril was playing that concerto so superbly. It did, actually—right in the middle of the adagio movement, too. And in spite of my joy and pride in the music I had all I could do to keep from nudging Marie right there and then and asking her whether or not the dear man was hard on his hose.”
“Billy!” gasped the shocked Aunt Hannah; but the gasp broke at once into what—in Aunt Hannah—passed for a chuckle. “If I remember rightly, when I was there at the house with you at first, my dear, William told me that Cyril wouldn't wear any sock after it came to mending.”
“Horrors!” Billy waved her stocking in mock despair. “That will never do in the world. It would break Marie's heart. You know how she dotes on darning.”
“Yes, I know,” smiled Aunt Hannah. “By the way, where is she this morning?”
Billy raised her eyebrows quizzically.