“You've been busy, no doubt, with—other matters,” he presumed forlornly, thinking of Calderwell.
“Yes, I have been busy,” assented the girl. “One is always happier, I think, to be busy. Not that I meant that I needed the work to be happy,” she added hastily, in a panic lest he think she had a consuming sorrow to kill.
“No, of course not,” he murmured abstractedly, rising to his feet and crossing the room to the piano. Then, with an elaborate air of trying to appear very natural, he asked jovially: “Anything new to play to me?”
Alice arose at once.
“Yes. I have a little nocturne that I was playing to Mr. Calderwell last night.”
“Oh, to Calderwell!” Arkwright had stiffened perceptibly.
“Yes. He didn't like it. I'll play it to you and see what you say,” she smiled, seating herself at the piano.
“Well, if he had liked it, it's safe to say I shouldn't,” shrugged Arkwright.
“Nonsense!” laughed the girl, beginning to appear more like her natural self. “I should think you were Mr. Cyril Henshaw! Mr. Calderwell is partial to ragtime, I'll admit. But there are some good things he likes.”
“There are, indeed, some good things he likes,” returned Arkwright, with grim emphasis, his somber eyes fixed on what he believed to be the one especial object of Calderwell's affections at the moment.