“Yes, and you know Mr. Arkwright, too. She told of him.”
“Yes? Well, what of him?” Alice's voice was studiedly indifferent.
“Oh, there was quite a lot of him. Belle had just been to hear him sing, and then her brother had introduced him to her. She thinks he's perfectly wonderful, in every way, I should judge. In fact, she simply raved over him. It seems that while we've been hearing nothing from him all winter, he's been winning no end of laurels for himself in Paris and Berlin. He's been studying, too, of course, as well as singing; and now he's got a chance to sing somewhere—create a rôle, or something—Belle said she wasn't quite clear on the matter herself, but it was a perfectly splendid chance, and one that was a fine feather in his cap.”
“Then he won't be coming home—that is, to Boston—at all this winter, probably,” said Alice, with a cheerfulness that sounded just a little forced.
“Not until February. But he is coming then. He's been engaged for six performances with the Boston Opera Company—as a star tenor, mind you! Isn't that splendid?”
“Indeed it is,” murmured Alice.
“Belle writes that Hugh says he's improved wonderfully, and that even he can see that his singing is marvelous. He says Paris is wild over him; but—for my part, I wish he'd come home and stay here where he belongs,” finished Billy, a bit petulantly.
“Why, why, Billy!” murmured her friend, a curiously startled look coming into her eyes.
“Well, I do,” maintained Billy; then, recklessly, she added: “I had such beautiful plans for him, once, Alice. Oh, if you only could have cared for him, you'd have made such a splendid couple!”
A vivid scarlet flew to Alice's face.