Miss Billie's Decision [3]
I guess, by this time; and he isn't a marrying man. He buried his heart with his wife and baby years ago. Cyril, according to Bertram, `hates women and all other confusion,' so that ought to let him out. As for Bertram himself--Bertram is `only Bertram.' He's always been that. Bertram loves girls--to paint; but I can't imagine him making serious love to any one. It would always be the tilt of a chin or the turn of a cheek that he was admiring--to paint.
No, there's no chance for a romance there, I'll warrant.''
``But there's--yourself.''
Calderwell's eyebrows rose the fraction of an inch.
``Oh, of course. I presume January or February will find me back there,'' he admitted with a sigh and a shrug. Then, a little bitterly, he added: ``No, Arkwright. I shall keep away if I can. I _know_ there's no chance for me--now.''
``Then you'll leave me a clear field?'' bantered the other.
``Of course--`Mary Jane,' '' retorted Calderwell, with equal lightness.
``Thank you.''
``Oh, you needn't,'' laughed Calderwell. ``My giving you the right of way doesn't insure you a thoroughfare for yourself--there are others, you know. Billy Neilson has had sighing swains about I her, I imagine, since she could walk and talk. She is a wonderfully fascinating little bit of femininity, and she has a heart of pure gold. All is, I envy the man who wins it--for the man who wins that, wins her.''
There was no answer. Arkwright sat with his eyes on the moving throng outside the window near them. Perhaps he had not heard. At all events, when he spoke some time later, it was of a matter far removed from Miss Billy Neilson, or the way to her heart. Nor was the young lady mentioned between them again that day.
Long hours later, just before parting for the night, Arkwright said:
``Calderwell, I'm sorry, but I believe, after all, I can't take that trip to the lakes with you. I-- I'm going home next week.''
``Home! Hang it, Arkwright! I'd counted on you. Isn't this rather sudden?''
``Yes, and no. I'll own I've been drifting about with you contentedly enough for the last six months to make you think mountain-climbing and boat-paddling were the end and aim of my existence. But they aren't, you know, really.''
``Nonsense! At heart you're as much of a vagabond as I am; and you know it.''
``Perhaps. But unfortunately I don't happen to carry your pocketbook.''
``You may, if you like. I'll hand it over any time,'' grinned Calderwell.
``Thanks. You know well enough what I mean,'' shrugged the other.
There was a moment's silence; then Calderwell queried:
``Arkwright, how old are you?''
``Twenty-four.''
``Good! Then you're merely travelling to supplement your education, see?''
``Oh, yes, I see. But something besides my education has got to be supplemented now, I reckon.''
``What are you going to do?''
There was an almost imperceptible hesitation; then, a little shortly, came the answer:
``Hit the trail for Grand Opera, and bring up, probably--in vaudeville.''
Calderwell smiled appreciatively.
``You _can_ sing like the devil,'' he admitted.
``Thanks,'' returned his friend, with uplifted eyebrows. ``Do you mind calling it `an angel' --just for this occasion?''
``Oh, the matine-girls will do that fast enough. But, I say, Arkwright, what are you going to do with those initials then?''
``Let 'em alone.''
``Oh, no, you won't. And you won't be `Mary Jane,' either. Imagine a Mary Jane in Grand Opera! I know what you'll be. You'll be `Seor Martini Johnini Arkwrightino'! By the way, you didn't say what that `M. J.' really did stand for,'' hinted Calderwell, shamelessly
`` `Merely Jokes'--in your estimation, evidently,'' shrugged the other. ``But my going isn't a joke, Calderwell. I'm really going. And I'm going to work.''
``But--how shall you manage?''
``Time will tell.''
Calderwell frowned and stirred restlessly in his chair.
``But, honestly, now, to--to follow that trail of yours will take money. And--er--'' a faint red stole
No, there's no chance for a romance there, I'll warrant.''
``But there's--yourself.''
Calderwell's eyebrows rose the fraction of an inch.
``Oh, of course. I presume January or February will find me back there,'' he admitted with a sigh and a shrug. Then, a little bitterly, he added: ``No, Arkwright. I shall keep away if I can. I _know_ there's no chance for me--now.''
``Then you'll leave me a clear field?'' bantered the other.
``Of course--`Mary Jane,' '' retorted Calderwell, with equal lightness.
``Thank you.''
``Oh, you needn't,'' laughed Calderwell. ``My giving you the right of way doesn't insure you a thoroughfare for yourself--there are others, you know. Billy Neilson has had sighing swains about I her, I imagine, since she could walk and talk. She is a wonderfully fascinating little bit of femininity, and she has a heart of pure gold. All is, I envy the man who wins it--for the man who wins that, wins her.''
There was no answer. Arkwright sat with his eyes on the moving throng outside the window near them. Perhaps he had not heard. At all events, when he spoke some time later, it was of a matter far removed from Miss Billy Neilson, or the way to her heart. Nor was the young lady mentioned between them again that day.
Long hours later, just before parting for the night, Arkwright said:
``Calderwell, I'm sorry, but I believe, after all, I can't take that trip to the lakes with you. I-- I'm going home next week.''
``Home! Hang it, Arkwright! I'd counted on you. Isn't this rather sudden?''
``Yes, and no. I'll own I've been drifting about with you contentedly enough for the last six months to make you think mountain-climbing and boat-paddling were the end and aim of my existence. But they aren't, you know, really.''
``Nonsense! At heart you're as much of a vagabond as I am; and you know it.''
``Perhaps. But unfortunately I don't happen to carry your pocketbook.''
``You may, if you like. I'll hand it over any time,'' grinned Calderwell.
``Thanks. You know well enough what I mean,'' shrugged the other.
There was a moment's silence; then Calderwell queried:
``Arkwright, how old are you?''
``Twenty-four.''
``Good! Then you're merely travelling to supplement your education, see?''
``Oh, yes, I see. But something besides my education has got to be supplemented now, I reckon.''
``What are you going to do?''
There was an almost imperceptible hesitation; then, a little shortly, came the answer:
``Hit the trail for Grand Opera, and bring up, probably--in vaudeville.''
Calderwell smiled appreciatively.
``You _can_ sing like the devil,'' he admitted.
``Thanks,'' returned his friend, with uplifted eyebrows. ``Do you mind calling it `an angel' --just for this occasion?''
``Oh, the matin
``Let 'em alone.''
``Oh, no, you won't. And you won't be `Mary Jane,' either. Imagine a Mary Jane in Grand Opera! I know what you'll be. You'll be `Se
`` `Merely Jokes'--in your estimation, evidently,'' shrugged the other. ``But my going isn't a joke, Calderwell. I'm really going. And I'm going to work.''
``But--how shall you manage?''
``Time will tell.''
Calderwell frowned and stirred restlessly in his chair.
``But, honestly, now, to--to follow that trail of yours will take money. And--er--'' a faint red stole