accompaniment. Next followed a duet. Billy
did not consider herself much of a singer, but her
voice was sweet and true, and not without training.
It blended very prettily with the clear, pure
tenor.

William and Aunt Hannah still smiled contentedly
in their chairs, though Aunt Hannah had
reached for the pink shawl near her--the music
had sent little shivers down her spine. Cyril,
with Marie, had slipped into the little reception-
room across the hall, ostensibly to look at some
plans for a house, although--as everybody
knew--they were not intending to build for a
year.

Bertram, still sitting stiffly erect in his chair,
was not conscious of a vague irritation now.
He was conscious of a very real, and a very
decided one--an irritation that was directed against
himself, against Billy, and against this man,
Arkwright; but chiefly against music, _#per se_. He
hated music. He wished he could sing. He
wondered how long it took to teach a man to sing,
anyhow; and he wondered if a man could sing--
who never had sung.

At this point the duet came to an end, and Billy
and her guest left the piano. Almost at once,
after this, Arkwright made his very graceful