All this had been at the first--the very first.

He had boldly scorned the idea then, and had said: "So it's music--a cold, senseless thing of spidery marks on clean white paper--that is my only rival!" He had said, too, that he was going to win.

And he had won--but not until after long weeks of fearing, hoping, striving, and despairing--this last when Kate's blundering had nearly made her William's wife.

Then, on that memorable day in September, Billy had walked straight into his arms; and he knew that he had, indeed, won.
That is, he had supposed that he knew--until Arkwright came.
Very sharply now, as he listened to Billy's singing, Bertram told himself to be reasonable, to be sensible; that Billy did, indeed, love him.

Was she not, according to her own dear assertion, singing that song to him?
But it was Arkwright's song.