As was always the case, Cyril's music had carried her quite out of herself.
"Oh, thank you, thank you," she sighed.

"You don't know--you can't know how beautiful it all is--to me!" "Thank you.

Then surely now you'll play to me," he returned.
A look of real distress came to Billy's face.
"But I can't--not what you heard the other day," she cried remorsefully.
"You see, I was--only improvising." Cyril turned quickly.
"Only improvising! Billy, did you ever write it down--any of your improvising ?" An embarrassed red flew to Billy's face.
"Not--not that amounted to--well, that is, some--a little," she stammered.
"Let me see it." "No, no, I couldn't--not YOU!" Again the rare smile lighted Cyril's eyes.
"Billy, let me see that paper--please." Very slowly the girl turned toward the music cabinet.

She hesitated, glanced once more appealingly into Cyril's face, then with nervous haste opened the little mahogany door and took from one of the shelves a sheet of manuscript music.

But, like a shy child with her first copy book, she held it half behind her back as she came toward the piano.
"Thank you," said Cyril as he reached far out for the music.