They were his words, wrung straight from his heart; and they were being sung by the girl for whom they were written.

They were being sung with feeling, too--so evident a feeling that the man's pulse quickened, and his eyes flashed a sudden fire.

Arkwright could not know, of course, that Billy, in her own mind, was singing that song--to Bertram Henshaw.
The fire was still in Arkwright's eyes when the song was ended; but Billy very plainly did not see it.

With a frowning sigh and a murmured "There!" she began to talk of "rhythm" and "accent" and "cadence"; and to point out with anxious care why three syllables instead of two were needed at the end of a certain line.

From this she passed eagerly to the accompaniment, and Arkwright at once found himself lost in a maze of "minor thirds" and "diminished sevenths," until he was forced to turn from the singer to the song.