“'Michael Jeremiah,' please. There is no 'Mary Jane,' now,” he said a bit stiffly.
The other stared a little. Then he gave a low chuckle.
“'Michael Jeremiah,'” he repeated musingly, eyeing the glowing tip of his cigar. “And to think how that mysterious 'M. J.' used to tantalize me! Do you mean,” he added, turning slowly, “that no one calls you 'Mary Jane' now?”
“Not if they know what is best for them.”
“Oh!” Calderwell noted the smouldering fire in the other's eyes a little curiously. “Very well. I'll take the hint—Michael Jeremiah.”
“Thanks.” Arkwright relaxed a little. “To tell the truth, I've had quite enough now—of Mary Jane.”
“Very good. So be it,” nodded the other, still regarding his friend thoughtfully. “But tell me—what of yourself?”
Arkwright shrugged his shoulders.
“There's nothing to tell. You've seen. I'm here.”
“Humph! Very pretty,” scoffed Calderwell. “Then if you won't tell, I will. I saw Billy a month ago, you see. It seems you've hit the trail for Grand Opera, as you threatened to that night in Paris; but you haven't brought up in vaudeville, as you prophesied you would do—though, for that matter, judging from the plums some of the stars are picking on the vaudeville stage, nowadays, that isn't to be sneezed at. But Billy says you've made two or three appearances already on the sacred boards themselves—one of them a subscription performance—and that you created no end of a sensation.”