``Well, I've got the Annex. I'm glad I've got that for the overflow, anyway,'' resumed Billy, trying to steady her voice. ``I've sent a whole lot of happiness up there mentally, if I haven't actually carried it; so I'm sure you must have got it. Now tell me of yourself.''
``There's nothing to tell,'' insisted Alice, as before.
``You're working as hard as ever?''
``Yes--harder.''
``New pupils?''
``Yes, and some concert engagements--good ones, for next season. Accompaniments, you know.''
Billy nodded.
``Yes; I've heard of you already twice, lately, in that line, and very flatteringly, too.''
``Have you? Well, that's good.''
``Hm-m.'' There was a moment's silence, then, abruptly, Billy changed the subject. ``Ihad a letter from Belle Calderwell, yesterday.''
She paused expectantly, but there was no comment.
``You don't seem interested,'' she frowned, after a minute.
Alice laughed.
``Pardon me, but--I don't know the Lady, you see. Was it a good letter?''
``You know her brother.''
``Very true.'' Alice's cheeks showed a deeper color. ``Did she say anything of him?''
``Yes. She said he was coming back to Boston next winter.''
``Indeed!''
``Yes. She says that this time he declares he really _is_ going to settle down to work,'' murmured Billy, demurely, with a sidelong glance at her companion. ``She says he's engaged to be married --one of her friends over there.''
There was no reply. Alice appeared to be absorbed in watching a tiny white sail far out at sea.
Again Billy was silent. Then, with studied carelessness, she said:
``Yes, and you know Mr. Arkwright, too. She told of him.''
``Yes? Well, what of him?'' Alice's voice was studiedly indifferent.
``Oh, there was quite a lot of him. Belle had just been to hear him sing, and then her brother had introduced him to her. She thinks he's perfectly wonderful, in every way, I should judge.
In fact, she simply raved over him. It seems that while we've been hearing nothing from him all winter, he's been winning no end of laurels for himself in Paris and Berlin. He's been studying, too, of course, as well as singing; and now he's got a chance to sing somewhere--create a r<o^>le, or something--Belle said she wasn't quite clear on the matter herself, but it was a perfectly splendid chance, and one that was a fine feather in his cap.''
``Then he won't be coming home--that is, to Boston--at all this winter, probably,'' said Alice, with a cheerfulness that sounded just a little forced.
``Not until February. But he is coming then.
He's been engaged for six performances with the Boston Opera Company--as a star tenor, mind you! Isn't that splendid?''
``Indeed it is,'' murmured Alice.
``Belle writes that Hugh says he's improved wonderfully, and that even he can see that his singing is marvelous. He says Paris is wild over him; but--for my part, I wish he'd come home and stay here where he belongs,'' finished Billy, a bit petulantly.
``Why, why, Billy!'' murmured her friend, a curiously startled look coming into her eyes.
``Well, I do,'' maintained Billy; then, recklessly, she added: ``I had such beautiful plans for him, once, Alice. Oh, if you only could have cared for him, you'd have made such a splendid couple!''
A vivid scarlet flew to Alice's face.
``Nonsense!'' she cried, getting quickly to her feet and bending over one of the flower boxes along the veranda railing. ``Mr. Arkwright never thought of marrying me--and I'm not going to marry anybody but my music.''
Billy sighed despairingly.
``I know that's what you say now; but if--''
She stopped abruptly. Around the turn of the veranda had appeared Aunt Hannah, wheeling Bertram, Jr., still asleep in his carriage.
``I came out the other door,'' she explained softly. ``And it was so lovely I just had to go in and get the baby. I thought it would be so nice for him to finish his nap out here.''
Billy arose with a troubled frown.
``But, Aunt Hannah, he mustn't--he can't stay out here. I'm sorry, but we'll have to take him back.''
Aunt Hannah's eyes grew mutinous.
``But I thought the outdoor air was just the thing for him. I'm sure your scientific hygienic nonsense says _that!_''
``They do--they did--that is, some of them do,'' acknowledged Billy, worriedly; ``but they differ, so! And the one I'm going by now says that Baby should always sleep in an _even_temperature--seventy degrees, if possible; and that's exactly what the room in there was, when I left him. It's not the same out here, I'm sure. In fact I looked at the thermometer to see, just before I came out myself. So, Aunt Hannah, I'm afraid I'll have to take him back.''
``But you used to have him sleep out of doors all the time, on that little balcony out of your room,'' argued Aunt Hannah, still plainly unconvinced.
``Yes, I know I did. I was following the other man's rules, then. As I said, if only they wouldn't differ so! Of course I want the best; but it's so hard to always know the best, and--''
At this very inopportune moment Master Bertram took occasion to wake up, which brought even a deeper wrinkle of worry to his fond mother's forehead; for she said that, according to the clock, he should have been sleeping exactly ten and one-half more minutes, and that of course he couldn't commence the next thing until those ten and one-half minutes were up, or else his entire schedule for the day would be shattered. So what she should do with him for those should-have-been-sleeping ten minutes and a half, she did not know. All of which drew from Aunt Hannah the astounding exclamation of:
``Oh, my grief and conscience, Billy, if you aren't the--the limit!'' Which, indeed, she must have been, to have brought circumspect Aunt Hannah to the point of actually using slang.
