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It had occurred to him suddenly that perhaps it would not be unalloyed bliss to take this young namesake of William's home with them. It was not until an hour later, when Billy, Aunt Hannah, and the Henshaws had reached the hotel where they were to spend the night, that the Henshaw brothers began really to get acquainted with Billy.
One day, very soon, in fact, after she arrived in Boston, Billy asked Calderwell about the Henshaws. "Tell me about them," she said. "Tell me what they have been doing all these years." "Tell you about them! Why, don't you know?" She shook her head. "No. Cyril says nothing. William little more about themselves; and you know what Bertram is. One can hardly separate sense from nonsense with him."
Dan knew that he was goin' to bring down the price o' Alecks an' Henshaws. First we got ahead; then they scraped by us, crumpling our fender on the nigh side. Lizzie an' I lost our hats in the scrimmage. We gathered speed an' ripped off a section o' their bulwarks, an' roared along neck an' neck with 'em. The broken fenders rattled like drums in a battle.
He had now come to the point, however, where he was determined to "settle down to something that meant something," he told the Henshaws, as the four men smoked in Bertram's den after dinner. "Yes, sir, I have," he iterated. "And, by the way, the little girl that has set me to thinking in such good earnest is a friend of yours, too, Miss Neilson. I met her in Paris.
"Well, I know what Will is doing," he declared. "Will is in Bertram's den dozing before the fireplace with Spunkie curled up in his lap." As it happened, both these surmises were not far from right. In the Strata, the Henshaws' old Beacon Street home, William was sitting before the fireplace with the cat in his lap, but he was not dozing. He was talking.
"What's his name?" "William Henshaw. He lives in Boston." Lawyer Harding snatched off his glasses, and leaned forward in his chair. "William Henshaw! Not the Beacon Street Henshaws!" he cried. It was Billy's turn to be excited. She, too, leaned forward eagerly. "Oh, do you know him? That's lovely! And his address IS Beacon Street! I know because I saw it only to-day.
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."
At her departure the Henshaws' possessions were less by four cups, two saucers, one plate, one salad bowl, two cut glass tumblers, and a teapot the latter William's choicest bit of Lowestoft. Olga came next. Olga was a Treasure. She was low-voiced, gentle-eyed, and a good cook. She stayed a week.
For at once the little house perched on the hillside became the Mecca for many of the Henshaws' friends who had known Billy as William's merry, eighteen-year-old namesake.
Well er, I think your plan about the Henshaws is very good," he interposed hurriedly. "I'll speak to Ned I'll speak to Ned," he finished, as he ceremoniously bowed the girl from the office. James Harding kept his word, and spoke to his son that night; but there was little, after all, that Ned could tell him.
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