the
sacred boards themselves--one of them a subscription performance--and
that you created no end of a sensation."

"Nonsense! I'm merely a student at the Opera School here," scowled
Arkwright.

"Oh, yes, Billy said you were that, but she also said you wouldn't
be, long. That you'd already had one good offer--I'm not speaking of
marriage--and that you were going abroad next summer, and that they were
all insufferably proud of you."

"Nonsense!" scowled Arkwright, again, coloring like a girl. "That is
only some of--of Mrs. Henshaw's kind flattery."

Calderwell jerked the cigar from between his lips, and sat suddenly
forward in his chair.

"Arkwright, tell me about them. How are they making it go?"

Arkwright frowned.

"Who? Make what go?" he asked.

"The Henshaws. Is she happy? Is he--on the square?"

Arkwright's face darkened.

"Well, really," he began; but Calderwell interrupted.

"Oh, come; don't be squeamish. You think I'm butting into what doesn't
concern me; but I'm not. What concerns Billy does concern me. And if he
doesn't make her happy, I'll--I'll kill him."

In spite of himself Arkwright laughed. The vehemence of the other's
words, and the fierceness with which he puffed at his cigar as he fell
back in his chair were most expressive.

"Well, I don't think you need to load revolvers nor sharpen daggers,
just yet," he observed grimly.

Calderwell laughed this time, though without much mirth.

"Oh, I'm not in love with Billy, now," he explained. "Please don't think
I am. I shouldn't see her if I was, of course."

Arkwright changed his position suddenly, bringing his face into the
shadow. Calderwell talked on without pausing.

"No, I'm not in love with Billy. But Billy's a trump. You know that."

"I do." The words were low, but steadily spoken.

"Of course you do! We all do. And we want her happy. But as for her
marrying Bertram--you could have bowled me over with a soap bubble when
I heard she'd done it. Now understand: Bertram is a good fellow, and I
like him. I've known him all his life, and he's all right. Oh, six or
eight years ago, to be sure, he got in with a set of fellows--Bob Seaver
and his clique--that were no good. Went in for Bohemianism, and all that
rot. It wasn't good for Bertram. He's got the confounded temperament
that goes with his talent, I suppose--though why a man can't paint a
picture, or sing a song, and keep his temper and a level head I don't
see!"

"He can," cu