“Of course I am,” laughed the other. “You couldn't hire Alice to miss one shriek of those spirits. Besides, I rather like them myself, you know.”
“Yes, I suppose you do. You're brought up on it—in your business. But me for the 'Merry Widow' and even the hoary 'Jingle Bells' every time! However, I'm going to be there—out of respect to the poor fellow's family. And, by the way, that's another thing that bowled me over—Cyril's marriage. Why, Cyril hates women!”
“Not all women—we'll hope,” smiled Arkwright. “Do you know his wife?”
“Not much. I used to see her a little at Billy's. Music teacher, wasn't she? Then she's the same sort, I suppose.”
“But she isn't,” laughed Arkwright. “Oh, she taught music, but that was only because of necessity, I take it. She's domestic through and through, with an overwhelming passion for making puddings and darning socks, I hear. Alice says she believes Mrs. Cyril knows every dish and spoon by its Christian name, and that there's never so much as a spool of thread out of order in the house.”
“But how does Cyril stand it—the trials and tribulations of domestic life? Bertram used to declare that the whole Strata was aquiver with fear when Cyril was composing, and I remember him as a perfect bear if anybody so much as whispered when he was in one of his moods. I never forgot the night Bertram and I were up in William's room trying to sing 'When Johnnie comes marching home,' to the accompaniment of a banjo in Bertram's hands, and a guitar in mine. Gorry! it was Hugh that went marching home that night.”
“Oh, well, from reports I reckon Mrs. Cyril doesn't play either a banjo or a guitar,” smiled Arkwright. “Alice says she wears rubber heels on her shoes, and has put hushers on all the chair-legs, and felt-mats between all the plates and saucers. Anyhow, Cyril is building a new house, and he looks as if he were in a pretty healthy condition, as you'll see to-morrow night.”
“Humph! I wish he'd make his music healthy, then,” grumbled Calderwell, as he opened the door.