“Nothing more. I see her frequently. She is musical, and the Henshaws are good enough to ask us there often together. You will meet her, doubtless, now, yourself. She is frequently at the Henshaw home.”
“Hm-m.” Calderwell still eyed his host shrewdly. “Then you'll give me a clear field, eh?”
“Certainly.” Arkwright's eyes met his friend's gaze without swerving.
“All right. However, I suppose you'll tell me, as I did you, once, that a right of way in such a case doesn't mean a thoroughfare for the party interested. If my memory serves me, I gave you right of way in Paris to win the affections of a certain elusive Miss Billy here in Boston, if you could. But I see you didn't seem to improve your opportunities,” he finished teasingly.
Arkwright stooped, of a sudden, to pick up a bit of paper from the floor.
“No,” he said quietly. “I didn't seem to improve my opportunities.” This time he did not meet Calderwell's eyes.
The good-byes had been said when Calderwell turned abruptly at the door.
“Oh, I say, I suppose you're going to that devil's carnival at Jordan Hall to-morrow night.”
“Devil's carnival! You don't mean—Cyril Henshaw's piano recital!”
“Sure I do,” grinned Calderwell, unabashed. “And I'll warrant it'll be a devil's carnival, too. Isn't Mr. Cyril Henshaw going to play his own music? Oh, I know I'm hopeless, from your standpoint, but I can't help it. I like mine with some go in it, and a tune that you can find without hunting for it. And I don't like lost spirits gone mad that wail and shriek through ten perfectly good minutes, and then die with a gasping moan whose home is the tombs. However, you're going, I take it.”