“Of course! Why don't you--'Mary Jane'?” laughed Calderwell. “Billy'd take you all right. She's had a little Miss Hawthorn, a music teacher, there for months. She's always doing stunts of that sort. Belle writes me that she's had a dozen forlornites there all this last summer, two or three at a time-tired widows, lonesome old maids, and crippled kids--just to give them a royal good time. So you see she'd take you, without a doubt. Jove! what a pair you'd make: Miss Billy and Mr. Mary Jane! You'd drive the suffragettes into conniption fits--just by the sound of you!” Arkwright laughed quietly; then he frowned. “But how about it?” he asked. “I thought she was keeping house with Aunt Hannah. Didn't she stay at all with the Henshaws?” “Oh, yes, a few months. I never knew just why she did leave, but I fancied, from something Billy herself said once, that she discovered she was creating rather too much of an upheaval in the Strata. So she took herself off. She went to school, and travelled considerably. She was over here when I met her first. After that she was with us all one summer on the yacht. A couple of years ago, or so, she went back to Boston, bought a house and settled down with Aunt Hannah.” “And she's not married--or even engaged?” “Wasn't the last I heard. I haven't seen her since December, and I've heard from her only indirectly. She corresponds with my sister, and so do I--intermittently. I heard a month ago from Belle, and _she_ had a letter from Billy in August. But I heard nothing of any engagement.” “How about the Henshaws? I should think there might be a chance there for a romance--a charming girl, and three unattached men.” Calderwell gave a slow shake of the head. “I don't think so. William is--let me see--nearly forty-five, 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.”