“You can sing like the devil,” he admitted.
“Thanks,” returned his friend, with uplifted eyebrows. “Do you mind calling it 'an angel'—just for this occasion?”
“Oh, the matinée-girls will do that fast enough. But, I say, Arkwright, what are you going to do with those initials then?”
“Let 'em alone.”
“Oh, no, you won't. And you won't be 'Mary Jane,' either. Imagine a Mary Jane in Grand Opera! I know what you'll be. You'll be 'Señor Martini Johnini Arkwrightino'! By the way, you didn't say what that 'M. J.' really did stand for,” hinted Calderwell, shamelessly.
“'Merely Jokes'—in your estimation, evidently,” shrugged the other. “But my going isn't a joke, Calderwell. I'm really going. And I'm going to work.”
“But—how shall you manage?”
“Time will tell.”
Calderwell frowned and stirred restlessly in his chair.
“But, honestly, now, to—to follow that trail of yours will take money. And—er—” a faint red stole to his forehead—“don't they have—er—patrons for these young and budding geniuses? Why can't I have a hand in this trail, too—or maybe you'd call it a foot, eh? I'd be no end glad to, Arkwright.”