“Thank you.”
“Oh, you needn't,” laughed Calderwell. “My giving you the right of way doesn't insure you a thoroughfare for yourself—there are others, you know. Billy Neilson has had sighing swains about I her, I imagine, since she could walk and talk. She is a wonderfully fascinating little bit of femininity, and she has a heart of pure gold. All is, I envy the man who wins it—for the man who wins that, wins her.”
There was no answer. Arkwright sat with his eyes on the moving throng outside the window near them. Perhaps he had not heard. At all events, when he spoke some time later, it was of a matter far removed from Miss Billy Neilson, or the way to her heart. Nor was the young lady mentioned between them again that day.
Long hours later, just before parting for the night, Arkwright said:
“Calderwell, I'm sorry, but I believe, after all, I can't take that trip to the lakes with you. I—I'm going home next week.”
“Home! Hang it, Arkwright! I'd counted on you. Isn't this rather sudden?”
“Yes, and no. I'll own I've been drifting about with you contentedly enough for the last six months to make you think mountain-climbing and boat-paddling were the end and aim of my existence. But they aren't, you know, really.”
“Nonsense! At heart you're as much of a vagabond as I am; and you know it.”
“Perhaps. But unfortunately I don't happen to carry your pocketbook.”
“You may, if you like. I'll hand it over any time,” grinned Calderwell.
“Thanks. You know well enough what I mean,” shrugged the other.
There was a moment's silence; then Calderwell queried:
“Arkwright, how old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Good! Then you're merely travelling to supplement your education, see?”
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