“The—wedding?” he asked, a little faintly.
“Yes. Didn't you know? My friend, Miss Hawthorn, is to marry Mr. Cyril Henshaw next month.”
The man opposite relaxed visibly.
“Oh, Miss Hawthorn! No, I didn't know,” he murmured; then, with sudden astonishment he added: “And to Mr. Cyril, the musician, did you say?”
“Yes. You seem surprised.”
“I am.” Arkwright paused, then went on almost defiantly. “You see, Calderwell was telling me only last September how very unmarriageable all the Henshaw brothers were. So I am surprised—naturally,” finished Arkwright, as he rose to take his leave.
A swift crimson stained Billy's face.
“But surely you must know that—that—”
“That he has a right to change his mind, of course,” supplemented Arkwright smilingly, coming to her rescue in the evident confusion that would not let her finish her sentence. “But Calderwell made it so emphatic, you see, about all the brothers. He said that William had lost his heart long ago; that Cyril hadn't any to lose; and that Bertram—”
“But, Mr. Arkwright, Bertram is—is—” Billy had moistened her lips, and plunged hurriedly in to prevent Arkwright's next words. But again was she unable to finish her sentence, and again was she forced to listen to a very different completion from the smiling lips of the man at her side.