“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,” cut in Arkwright, with curt emphasis. “Humph! Well, that's what I think. But, about this marriage business. Bertram admires a pretty face wherever he sees it--_to paint_, and always has. Not but that he's straight as a string with women--I don't mean that; but girls are always just so many pictures to be picked up on his brushes and transferred to his canvases. And as for his settling down and marrying anybody for keeps, right along--Great Scott! imagine Bertram Henshaw as a _domestic_ man!” Arkwright stirred restlessly as he spoke up in quick defense: “Oh, but he is, I assure you. I--I've seen them in their home together--many times. I think they are--very happy.” Arkwright spoke with decision, though still a little diffidently. Calderwell was silent. He had picked up the little gilt band he had torn from his cigar and was fingering it musingly. “Yes; I've seen them--once,” he said, after a minute. “I took dinner with them when I was on, a month ago.” “I heard you did.” At something in Arkwright's voice, Calderwell turned quickly. “What do you mean? Why do you say it like that?” Arkwright laughed. The constraint fled from his manner. “Well, I may as well tell you. You'll hear of it. It's no secret. Mrs. Henshaw herself tells of it everywhere. It was her friend, Alice Greggory, who told me of it first, however. It seems the cook was gone, and the mistress had to get the dinner herself.” “Yes, I know that.”