Arkwright was on his feet instantly. His eyes, too, were alight. “I could not resist singing it just once--here,” he said a little unsteadily, as their hands met. “But to hear my little song sung like that! I couldn't believe it was mine,” choked Billy, still plainly very much moved. “You sang it as I've never heard it sung before.” Arkwright shook his head slowly. “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 hoarse 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.