“This one” was followed by another and another. Then Billy drew a long breath.
“There! that must positively be the last,” she declared reluctantly. “I'm so hoarse now I can scarcely croak. You see, I don't pretend to sing, really.”
“Don't you? You sing far better than some who do, anyhow,” retorted the man, warmly.
“Thank you,” smiled Billy; “that was nice of you to say so—for my sake—and the others aren't here to care. But tell me of yourself. I haven't had a chance to ask you yet; and—I think you said Mary Jane was going to study for Grand Opera.”
Arkwright laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
“She is; but, as I told Calderwell, she's quite likely to bring up in vaudeville.”
“Calderwell! Do you mean—Hugh Calderwell?” Billy's cheeks showed a deeper color.
The man gave an embarrassed little laugh. He had not meant to let that name slip out just yet.
“Yes.” He hesitated, then plunged on recklessly. “We tramped half over Europe together last summer.”
“Did you?” Billy left her seat at the piano for one nearer the fire. “But this isn't telling me about your own plans,” she hurried on a little precipitately. “You've studied before, of course. Your voice shows that.”