“Yes. I thought I told you. She turned down my tenth-dozen proposal so emphatically that I lost all interest in Boston and took to the tall timber again. But I've come back. A friend of my father's wrote me to come on and consider a good opening there was in his law office. I came on a month ago, and considered. Then I went back to pack up. Now I've come for good, and here I am. You have my history to date. Now tell me of yourself. You're looking as fit as a penny from the mint, even though you have discarded that 'lovely' brown beard. Was that a concession to--er--_Mary Jane_?” Arkwright lifted a quick hand of protest. “'Michael Jeremiah,' please. There is no 'Mary Jane,' now,” he said a bit stiffly. The other stared a little. Then he gave a low chuckle. “'Michael Jeremiah,'” he repeated musingly, eyeing the glowing tip of his cigar. “And to think how that mysterious 'M. J.' used to tantalize me! Do you mean,” he added, turning slowly, “that no one calls you 'Mary Jane' now?” “Not if they know what is best for them.” “Oh!” Calderwell noted the smouldering fire in the other's eyes a little curiously. “Very well. I'll take the hint--Michael Jeremiah.” “Thanks.” Arkwright relaxed a little. “To tell the truth, I've had quite enough now--of Mary Jane.” “Very good. So be it,” nodded the other, still regarding his friend thoughtfully. “But tell me--what of yourself?” Arkwright shrugged his shoulders. “There's nothing to tell. You've seen. I'm here.” “Humph! Very pretty,” scoffed Calderwell. “Then if _you_ won't tell, I _will_. I saw Billy a month ago, you see. It seems you've hit the trail for Grand Opera, as you threatened to that night in Paris; but you _haven't_ brought up in vaudeville, as you prophesied you would do--though, for that matter, judging from the plums some of the stars are picking on the vaudeville stage, nowadays, that isn't to be sneezed at. But Billy says you've made two or three appearances already on 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.