He remembered that, too--and grew faint at the thought.

True, he had won when his rival, music, had been a "cold, senseless thing of spidery marks" on paper; but would that winning stand when "music" had become a thing of flesh and blood--a man of undeniable charm, good looks, and winsomeness; a man whose thoughts, aims, and words were the personification of the thing Billy, in the long ago, had declared she loved best of all--music?
Bertram shivered as with a sudden chill; then Billy rose from the piano.
"There!" she breathed, her face shyly radiant with the glory of the song.

"Did you--like it ?" Bertram did his best; but, in his state of mind, the very radiance of her face was only an added torture, and his tongue stumbled over the words of praise and appreciation that he tried to say.

He saw, then, the happy light in Billy's eyes change to troubled questioning and grieved disappointment; and he hated himself for a jealous brute.

More earnestly than ever, now, he tried to force the ring of sincerity into his voice; but he knew that he had miserably failed when he heard her falter: "Of course, dear, I--I haven't got it nearly perfected yet.