Since coming to Boston, Arkwright had seen little of the two together.

His work, his friends, and his general mode of life precluded that.

Because of all this, therefore, Arkwright did not--know; which was a pity--for Arkwright, and for some others.
Promptly at five o'clock that afternoon, Arkwright rang Billy's doorbell, and was admitted by Rosa to the living-room, where Billy was at the piano.
Billy sprang to her feet with a joyous word of greeting.
"I'm so glad you've come," she sighed happily.

"I want you to hear the melody your pretty words have sung to me.

Though, maybe, after all, you won't like it, you know," she finished with arch wistfulness.
"As if I could help liking it," smiled the man, trying to keep from his voice the ecstatic delight that the touch of her hand had brought him.
Billy shook her head and seated herself again at the piano.
"The words are lovely," she declared, sorting out two or three sheets of manuscript music from the quantity on the rack before her.