Arkwright laughed.
“It isn't possible that you are sighing for the velvet coats and flowing ties of the past, is it, Miss Neilson?”
“I'm afraid it is,” dimpled Billy. “I love velvet coats and flowing ties!”
“May singers wear them? I shall don them at once, anyhow, at a venture,” declared the man, promptly.
Billy smiled and shook her head.
“I don't think you will. You all like your horrid fuzzy tweeds and worsteds too well!”
“You speak with feeling. One would almost suspect that you already had tried to bring about a reform—and failed. Perhaps Mr. Cyril, now, or Mr. Bertram—” Arkwright stopped with a whimsical smile.
Billy flushed a little. As it happened, she had, indeed, had a merry tilt with Bertram on that very subject, and he had laughingly promised that his wedding present to her would be a velvet house coat for himself. It was on the point of Billy's tongue now to say this to Arkwright; but another glance at the provoking smile on his lips drove the words back in angry confusion. For the second time, in the presence of this man, Billy found herself unable to refer to her engagement to Bertram Henshaw—though this time she did not in the least doubt that Arkwright already knew of it.
With a little gesture of playful scorn she rose and went to the piano.
“Come, let us try some duets,” she suggested. “That's lots nicer than quarrelling over velvet coats; and Aunt Hannah will be down presently to hear us sing.”