In the newcomer, Bertram met his match for wit and satire; and "Mr.Mary Jane," as he was promptly called by every one but Aunt Hannah, was found to be a most entertaining guest.
After dinner somebody suggested music.
Cyril frowned, and got up abruptly.

Still frowning, he turned to a bookcase near him and began to take down and examine some of the books.
Bertram twinkled and glanced at Billy.
"Which is it, Cyril ?" he called with cheerful impertinence; "stool, piano, or audience that is the matter to-night ?" Only a shrug from Cyril answered.
"You see," explained Bertram, jauntily, to Arkwright, whose eyes were slightly puzzled, "Cyril never plays unless the piano and the pedals and the weather and your ears and my watch and his fingers are just right!" "Nonsense!" scorned Cyril, dropping his book and walking back to his chair.

"I don't feel like playing to-night; that's all." "You see," nodded Bertram again.
"I see," bowed Arkwright with quiet amusement.
"I believe--Mr.Mary Jane--sings," observed Billy, at this point, demurely.
"Why, yes, of course," chimed in Aunt Hannah with some nervousness.
"That's what she--I mean he--was coming to Boston for--to study music." Everybody laughed.
"Won't you sing, please ?" asked Billy.

"Can you--without your notes?
I have lots of songs if you want them." For a moment--but only a moment--Arkwright hesitated; then he rose and went to the piano.
With the easy sureness of the trained musician his fingers dropped to the keys and slid into preliminary chords and arpeggios to test the touch of the piano; then, with a sweetness and purity that made every listener turn in amazed delight, a well-trained tenor began the "Thro' the leaves the night winds moving," of Schubert's Serenade.
Cyril's chin had lifted at the first tone.

He was listening now with very obvious pleasure.