"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.

"Oh, come; don't be squeamish. You think I'm b.u.t.ting 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 a.s.sure 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."

"But you should hear Mrs. Henshaw tell the story now, or Bertram.

It seems she knew nothing whatever about cooking, and her trials and tribulations in getting that dinner on to the table were only one degree worse than the dinner itself, according to her story. Didn't you--er--notice anything?"

"Notice anything!" exploded Calderwell. "I noticed that Billy was so brilliant she fairly radiated sparks; and I noticed that Bertram was so glum he--he almost radiated thunderclaps. Then I saw that Billy's high spirits were all a.s.sumed to cover a threatened burst of tears, and I laid it all to him. I thought he'd said something to hurt her; and I could have punched him. Great Scott! Was _that_ what ailed them?"

"I reckon it was. Alice says that since then Mrs. Henshaw has fairly haunted the kitchen, begging Eliza to teach her everything, _every single thing_ she knows!"

Calderwell chuckled.

"If that isn't just like Billy! She never does anything by halves. By George, but she was game over that dinner! I can see it all now."

"Alice says she's really learning to cook, in spite of old Pete's horror, and Eliza's pleadings not to spoil her pretty hands."

"Then Pete is back all right? What a faithful old soul he is!"

Arkwright frowned slightly.

"Yes, he's faithful, but he isn't all right, by any means. I think he's a sick man, myself."

"What makes Billy let him work, then?"

"Let him!" sniffed Arkwright. "I'd like to see you try to stop him! Mrs.

Henshaw begs and pleads with him to stop, but he scouts the idea. Pete is thoroughly and unalterably convinced that the family would starve to death if it weren't for him; and Mrs. Henshaw says that she'll admit he has some grounds for his opinion when one remembers the condition of the kitchen and dining-room the night she presided over them."

"Poor Billy!" chuckled Calderwell. "I'd have gone down into the kitchen myself if I'd suspected what was going on."

Arkwright raised his eyebrows.

"Perhaps it's well you didn't--if Bertram's picture of what he found there when he went down is a true one. Mrs. Henshaw acknowledges that even the cat sought refuge under the stove."

"As if the veriest worm that crawls ever needed to seek refuge from Billy!" scoffed Calderwell. "By the way, what's this Annex I hear of?

Bertram mentioned it, but I couldn't get either of them to tell what it was. Billy wouldn't, and Bertram said he couldn't--not with Billy shaking her head at him like that. So I had my suspicions. One of Billy's pet charities?"

"She doesn't call it that." Arkwright's face and voice softened. "It is Hillside. She still keeps it open. She calls it the Annex to her home.

She's filled it with a crippled woman, a poor little music teacher, a lame boy, and Aunt Hannah."

"But how--extraordinary!"

"She doesn't think so. She says it's just an overflow house for the extra happiness she can't use."

There was a moment's silence. 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!"