e a low
"Oh, how beautiful!" through her parted lips.

Bertram, looking at her, was conscious of a vague irritation.

"Arkwright, you're a lucky dog," he declared almost crossly. "I wish I
could sing like that!"

"I wish I could paint a 'Face of a Girl,'" smiled the tenor as he turned
from the piano.

"Oh, but, Mr. Arkwright, don't stop," objected Billy, springing to her
feet and going to her music cabinet by the piano. "There's a little song
of Nevin's I want you to sing. There, here it is. Just let me play it
for you." And she slipped into the place the singer had just left.

It was the beginning of the end. After Nevin came De Koven, and after
De Koven, Gounod. Then came Nevin again, Billy still playing the
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
adieus, and went off with his suit-case to the hotel where, as he had
informed Aunt Hannah, his room was already engaged.

William went home then, and Aunt Hannah went up-stairs. Cyril and Marie
withdrew into a still more secluded corner to look at their plans, and
Bertram found himself at last alone with Billy. He forgot, then, in
the blissful hour he spent with her before the open fire, how he hated
music; though he did say, just before he went home that night:

"Billy, how long does it take--to learn to sing?"

"Why, I don't know, I'm sure," replied Billy, a