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Updated: June 13, 2025
Billy winced and changed color. She had noticed the pause, and she knew very well what it was that Calderwell had said to occasion that pause. Must always she be reminded that no one expected Bertram Henshaw to love any girl except to paint? "But but Mr. Calderwell must know about the engagement now," she stammered.
But Miss Greggory says she looks pale and thin, and that she thinks she's worrying too much over running the house. I hope she isn't sick!" "Why, no, Billy isn't sick. Billy's all right," Bertram had answered. He had spoken lightly, nonchalantly, with an elaborate air of carelessness; but after he had left Calderwell, he had turned his steps abruptly and a little hastily toward home.
An odd hostility showed in Billy's eyes. Again Calderwell shrugged his shoulders. "Don't ask me. I don't know. But they're always dead slow, somber things, with the wail of a lost spirit shrieking through them." "But I just love lost spirits that wail," avowed Billy, with more than a shade of reproach in her voice. Calderwell stared; then he shook his head.
Calderwell laid down his cigar, pulled out his handkerchief, and blew his nose furiously. Then he got to his feet and walked to the fireplace. After a minute he turned. "Well, if she isn't the beat 'em!" he spluttered. "And I had the gall to ask you if Henshaw made her happy! Overflow house, indeed!" "The best of it is, the way she does it," smiled Arkwright.
To Billy's surprise the man answered this with calm directness. "Because Calderwell said that you were a dandy player, and I don't care for dandy players." Billy laughed now. "And how do you know I'm not a dandy player, Sir Impertinent?" she demanded. "Because I've heard you when you weren't." "Thank you," murmured Billy. Cyril shrugged his shoulders.
William thought it pretty, merry, and charmingly kissable; but just now he wished that it would talk to him, and not to Calderwell any longer. Cyril indeed, Cyril was paying little attention to Billy. He had turned to Aunt Hannah. To tell the truth, it seemed to Cyril that, after all, Billy was very much like other merry, thoughtless, rather noisy young women, of whom he knew and disliked scores.
Since then he had seen but little of her, partly because he did not wish to see her, and partly because his time was so fully occupied. Then, too, in a round-about way he had heard a rumor that Calderwell was engaged to be married; and, though no feminine name had been mentioned in connection with the story, Arkwright had not hesitated to supply in his own mind that of Alice Greggory.
It's only the turn of my head or or the tilt of my chin that you love to paint," she protested, unconsciously echoing the words Calderwell had said to her weeks before. "I'm only another 'Face of a Girl." "You're the only 'Face of a girl' to me now, Billy," declared the man, with disarming tenderness. "No, no, not that," demurred Billy, in distress. "You don't mean it. You only think you do.
"Thank you," smiled Billy; "that was nice of you to say so for my sake and the others aren't here to care. But tell me of yourself. I haven't had a chance to ask you yet; and I think you said Mary Jane was going to study for Grand Opera." Arkwright laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "She is; but, as I told Calderwell, she's quite likely to bring up in vaudeville." "Calderwell!
But certainly there must be something, some little thing that she could say, which would open Alice's eyes to what she was doing, and what she ought to do. It was in this frame of mind, therefore, that Billy, after Arkwright and Calderwell had gone, spoke to Alice. She began warily, with assumed nonchalance. "I believe Mr. Arkwright sings better every time I hear him." There was no answer.
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