were--not the keyboard of a piano--but the
violins, flutes, cornets, trombones, bass viols
and kettledrums of a full orchestra.

Billy, perhaps, of them all, best understood.
She knew that in those tripping melodies and
crashing chords were Cyril's joy at the presence
of Marie, his wrath at the flippancy of Bertram,
his ecstasy at that for which the rug and curtains
stood--the little woman sewing in the radiant
circle of a shaded lamp. 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: