Billy knew that all this and more were finding voice at Cyril's finger tips.

The others, too, understood in a way; but they, unlike Billy, were not in the habit of finding on a few score bits of wood and ivory a vent for their moods and fancies.
The music was softer now.

The resounding chords and purling runs had become a bell-like melody that wound itself in and out of a maze of exquisite harmonies, now hiding, now coming out clear and unafraid, like a mountain stream emerging into a sunlit meadow from the leafy shadows of its forest home.
In a breathless hush the melody quivered into silence.

It was Bertram who broke the pause with a long-drawn: "By George!" Then, a little unsteadily: "If it's I that set you going like that, old chap, I'll come up and play ragtime every day!" Cyril shrugged his shoulders and got to his feet.
"If you've seen all you want of the rug we'll go down-stairs," he said nonchalantly.
"But we haven't!" chorussed several indignant voices.

And for the next few minutes not even the owner of the beautiful Kirman could find any fault with the quantity or the quality of the attention bestowed on his new possession.