There was a moment's silence. Calderwell laid down his cigar, pulled out his handkerchief, and blew his nose furiously. Then he got to his feet and walked to the fireplace. After a minute he turned.
``Well, if she isn't the beat 'em!'' he spluttered.
``And I had the gall to ask you if Henshaw made her--happy! Overflow house, indeed!''
``The best of it is, the way she does it,'' smiled Arkwright. ``They're all the sort of people ordinary charity could never reach; and the only way she got them there at all was to make each one think that he or she was absolutely necessary to the rest of them. Even as it is, they all pay a little something toward the running expenses of the house. They insisted on that, and Mrs.
Henshaw had to let them. I believe her chief difficulty now is that she has not less than six people whom she wishes to put into the two extra rooms still unoccupied, and she can't make up her mind which to take. Her husband says he expects to hear any day of an Annexette to the Annex.''
``Humph!'' grunted Calderwell, as he turned and began to walk up and down the room. ``Bertram is still painting, I suppose.''
``Oh, yes.''
``What's he doing now?''
``Several things. He's up to his eyes in work.
As you probably have heard, he met with a severe accident last summer, and lost the use of his right arm for many months. I believe they thought at one time he had lost it forever. But it's all right now, and he has several commissions for portraits. Alice says he's doing ideal heads again, too.''
``Same old `Face of a Girl'?''
``I suppose so, though Alice didn't say. Of course his special work just now is painting the portrait of Miss Marguerite Winthrop. You may have heard that he tried it last year and --and didn't make quite a success of it.''
``Yes. My sister Belle told me. She hears from Billy once in a while. Will it be a go, this time?''
``We'll hope so--for everybody's sake. Iimagine no one has seen it yet--it's not finished;but Alice says--''
Calderwell turned abruptly, a quizzical smile on his face.
``See here, my son,'' he interposed, ``it strikes me that this Alice is saying a good deal--to you!
Who is she?''
Arkwright gave a light laugh.
``Why, I told you. She is Miss Alice Greggory, Mrs. Henshaw's friend--and mine. Ihave known her for years.''
``Hm-m; what is she like?''
``Like? Why, she's like--like herself, of course. You'll have to know Alice. She's the salt of the earth--Alice is,'' smiled Arkwright, rising to his feet with a remonstrative gesture, as he saw Calderwell pick up his coat. ``What's your hurry?''
``Hm-m,'' commented Calderwell again, ignoring the question. ``And when, may I ask, do you intend to appropriate this--er--salt --to--er--ah--season your own life with, as I might say--eh?''
Arkwright laughed. There was not the slightest trace of embarrassment in his face.
``Never. _You're_ on the wrong track, this time.
Alice and I are good friends--always have been, and always will be, I hope.''
``Nothing more?''
``Nothing more. I see her frequently. She is musical, and the Henshaws are good enough to ask us there often together. You will meet her, doubtless, now, yourself. She is frequently at the Henshaw home.''
``Hm-m.'' Calderwell still eyed his host shrewdly. ``Then you'll give me a clear field, eh?''
