oom to overflowing, as if under the fingers of the player
there 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: "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. But Billy, under cover of the chatter, said
reproachfully in his ear:

"Oh, Cyril, to think you can play like that--and won't--on demand!"

"I can't--on demand," shrugged Cyril again.

On the way down-stairs they stopped at William's rooms.

"I want you to see a couple of Batterseas I got last week," cried
the collector eagerly, as he led the way to the black velvet square.
"They're fine--and I think she looks like you," he finished, turning
to Billy, and holding out one of the knobs, on which was a beautifully
executed miniature of a young girl with dark, dreamy eyes.

"Oh, how pretty!" exclaimed Marie, over Billy's shoulder. "But what are
they?"

The collector turned, his face alight.

"Mirror knobs. I've got lots of them. Would you like to see
them--really? They're righ