"The inspiration of the room--that is all,", he said. "It is a beautiful song. All of your songs are beautiful."

Billy blushed rosily.

"Thank you. You know--more of them, then?"

"I think I know them all--unless you have some new ones out. Have you some new ones, lately?"

Billy shook her head.

"No; I haven't written anything since last spring."

"But you're going to?"

She drew a long sigh.

"Yes, oh, yes. I know that _now_--" With a swift biting of her lower lip Billy caught herself up in time. As if she could tell this man, this stranger, what she had told Bertram that night by the fire--that she knew that now, _now_ she would write beautiful songs, with his love, and his pride in her, as incentives. "Oh, yes, I think I shall write more one of these days," she finished lightly. "But come, this isn't singing duets! I want to see the music you brought."

They sang then, one after another of the duets. To Billy, the music was new and interesting. To Billy, too, it was new (and interesting) to hear her own voice blending with another's so perfectly--to feel herself a part of such exquisite harmony.

"Oh, oh!" she breathed ecstatically, after the last note of a particularly beautiful phrase. "I never knew before how lovely it was to sing duets."

"Nor I," replied Arkwright in a voice that was not quite steady.

Arkwright's eyes were on the enraptured face of the girl so near him.

It was well, perhaps, that Billy did not happen to turn and catch their expression. Still, it might have been better if she had turned, after all. But Billy's eyes were on the music before her. Her fingers were busy with the fluttering pages, searching for another duet.

"Didn't you?" she murmured abstractedly. "I supposed _you'd_ sung them before; but you see I never did--until the other night. There, let's try this one!"

"This one" was followed by another and another. Then Billy drew a long breath.

"There! that must positively be the last," she declared reluctantly.

"I'm so hoa.r.s.e now I can scarcely croak. You see, I don't pretend to sing, really."

"Don't you? You sing far better than some who do, anyhow," retorted the man, warmly.

"Thank you," smiled Billy; "that was nice of you to say so--for my sake--and the others aren't here to care. But tell me of yourself. I haven't had a chance to ask you yet; and--I think you said Mary Jane was going to study for Grand Opera."

Arkwright laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

"She is; but, as I told Calderwell, she's quite likely to bring up in vaudeville."

"Calderwell! Do you mean--Hugh Calderwell?" Billy's cheeks showed a deeper color.

The man gave an embarra.s.sed little laugh. He had not meant to let that name slip out just yet.

"Yes." He hesitated, then plunged on recklessly. "We tramped half over Europe together last summer."

"Did you?" Billy left her seat at the piano for one nearer the fire.

"But this isn't telling me about your own plans," she hurried on a little precipitately. "You've studied before, of course. Your voice shows that."

"Oh, yes; I've studied singing several years, and I've had a year or two of church work, besides a little concert practice of a mild sort."

"Have you begun here, yet?"

"Y-yes, I've had my voice tried."

Billy sat erect with eager interest.

"They liked it, of course?"

Arkwright laughed.

"I'm not saying that."

"No, but I am," declared Billy, with conviction. "They couldn't help liking it."

Arkwright laughed again. Just how well they had "liked it" he did not intend to say. Their remarks had been quite too flattering to repeat even to this very plainly interested young woman--delightful and heart-warming as was this same show of interest, to himself.

"Thank you," was all he said.

Billy gave an excited little bounce in her chair.

"And you'll begin to learn roles right away?"

"I already have, some--after a fashion--before I came here."

"Really? How splendid! Why, then you'll be acting them next right on the Boston Opera House stage, and we'll all go to hear you. How perfectly lovely! I can hardly wait."

Arkwright laughed--but his eyes glowed with pleasure.

"Aren't you hurrying things a little?" he ventured.

"But they do let the students appear," argued Billy. "I knew a girl last year who went on in 'Aida,' and she was a pupil at the School. She sang first in a Sunday concert, then they put her in the bill for a Sat.u.r.day night. She did splendidly--so well that they gave her a chance later at a subscription performance. Oh, you'll be there--and soon, too!"

"Thank you! I only wish the powers that could put me there had your flattering enthusiasm on the matter," he smiled.

"I don't worry any," nodded Billy, "only please don't 'arrive' too soon--not before the wedding, you know," she added jokingly. "We shall be too busy to give you proper attention until after that."

A peculiar look crossed Arkwright's face.

"The--_wedding?_" he asked, a little faintly.

"Yes. Didn't you know? My friend, Miss Hawthorn, is to marry Mr. Cyril Henshaw next month."

The man opposite relaxed visibly.

"Oh, _Miss Hawthorn!_ No, I didn't know," he murmured; then, with sudden astonishment he added: "And to Mr. Cyril, the musician, did you say?"

"Yes. You seem surprised."