“Nonsense! I'm merely a student at the Opera School here,” scowled Arkwright.
“Oh, yes, Billy said you were that, but she also said you wouldn't be, long. That you'd already had one good offer—I'm not speaking of marriage—and that you were going abroad next summer, and that they were all insufferably proud of you.”
“Nonsense!” scowled Arkwright, again, coloring like a girl. “That is only some of—of Mrs. Henshaw's kind flattery.”
Calderwell jerked the cigar from between his lips, and sat suddenly forward in his chair.
“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.