Surely you don't feel yourself neglected because I
happen to have my nose stuck in a book?"
"Of course not!" she denied vigorously. The childish absurdity of her
attitude struck her with sudden force. "Still, I'd like you to talk to
me once in a while."
"'Of shoes and ships and sealing wax; of cabbages and kings,'" he flung
at her mischievously. "I'll make music; that's better than mere words."
He picked up his mandolin and tuned the strings. Like most things
which he set out to do, Bill had mastered his instrument, and could
coax out of it all the harmony of which it was capable. He seemed to
know music better than many who pass for musicians. But he broke off
in the midst of a bar.
"Say, we could get a piano in here next spring," he said. "I just
recollected it. We'll do it."
Now, this was something that she had many a time audibly wished for.
Yet the prospect aroused no enthusiasm.
"That'll be nice," she said--but not as she would have said it a year
earlier. Bill's eyes narrowed a trifle, but he still smiled. And
suddenly he stepped around behind her chair, put both hands under her
chin, and tilted her head backward.
"Ah, you're plumb sick and tired to death of everything, aren't you?"
he said soberly.
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