“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 assure 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.”