"Oh," she breathed. "Are you going to stop? I think the angels must play like that!"
With an angry motion the lad thrust his bow into his left hand, and held out his right toward her.
"See that hand?" he demanded. Bee looked at it in perplexity.
"Yes; why?"
"That's the hand that made that music."
"Yes, I know," she answered gently. "It's ever so much smaller than mine, and whiter too." She held out her own slim brown hand and compared the two.
"Aren't they little bits of fingers?" went on the Prodigy. "Who would think that such little things could make such divine music? See the dimples at the knuckles! Aren't they dear?"
"Don't," cried Bee in disgust. "I was entranced with the music, and now you are spoiling it all by saying such foolish things."
"And don't you intend to kiss that hand?" ejaculated Percival in astonishment.
"Of course not," answered Bee, rising. "I must go, Percival. Your playing is marvelous, and I do hope that you will let me listen to you again. Come over and see me. And I want you to meet my father. I wish you would play for him."