``Certainly.'' Arkwright's eyes met his friend's gaze without swerving.
``All right. However, I suppose you'll tell me, as I did you, once, that a right of way in such a case doesn't mean a thoroughfare for the party interested. If my memory serves me, I gave you right of way in Paris to win the affections of a certain elusive Miss Billy here in Boston, if you could. But I see you didn't seem to improve your opportunities,'' he finished teasingly.
Arkwright stooped, of a sudden, to pick up a bit of paper from the floor.
``No,'' he said quietly. ``I didn't seem to improve my opportunities.'' This time he did not meet Calderwell's eyes.
The good-byes had been said when Calderwell turned abruptly at the door.
``Oh, I say, I suppose you're going to that devil's carnival at Jordan Hall to-morrow night.''
``Devil's carnival! You don't mean--Cyril Henshaw's piano recital!''
``Sure I do,'' grinned Calderwell, unabashed.
``And I'll warrant it'll be a devil's carnival, too.
Isn't Mr. Cyril Henshaw going to play his own music? Oh, I know I'm hopeless, from your standpoint, but I can't help it. I like mine with some go in it, and a tune that you can find without hunting for it. And I don't like lost spirits gone mad that wail and shriek through ten perfectly good minutes, and then die with a gasping moan whose home is the tombs. However, you're going, I take it.''
``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. Inever 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.
