Calderwell turned abruptly, a quizzical smile on his face.
“See here, my son,” he interposed, “it strikes me that this Alice is saying a good deal—to you! Who is she?”
Arkwright gave a light laugh.
“Why, I told you. She is Miss Alice Greggory, Mrs. Henshaw's friend—and mine. I have known her for years.”
“Hm-m; what is she like?”
“Like? Why, she's like—like herself, of course. You'll have to know Alice. She's the salt of the earth—Alice is,” smiled Arkwright, rising to his feet with a remonstrative gesture, as he saw Calderwell pick up his coat. “What's your hurry?”
“Hm-m,” commented Calderwell again, ignoring the question. “And when, may I ask, do you intend to appropriate this—er—salt—to—er—ah, season your own life with, as I might say—eh?”
Arkwright laughed. There was not the slightest trace of embarrassment in his face.
“Never. You're on the wrong track, this time. Alice and I are good friends—always have been, and always will be, I hope.”
“Nothing more?”