Miss Billys Decision | Page 4

Jokes'; but another, not so friendly, says they stand for `Mostly
Jealousy' of more fortunate chaps who have real names for a handle.
My small brothers and sisters, discovering, with the usual perspicacity
of one's family on such matters, that I never signed, or called myself
anything but `M. J.,' dubbed me `Mary Jane.' And there you have it.''
``Mary Jane! You!''
Arkwright smiled oddly.
``Oh, well, what's the difference? Would you deprive them of their
innocent amusement? And they do so love that `Mary Jane'! Besides,
what's in a name, anyway?'' he went on, eyeing the glowing tip of the
cigar between his fingers. `` `A rose by any other name--'--you've heard
that, probably. Names don't always signify, my dear fellow. For
instance, I know a `Billy'--but he's a girl.''
Calderwell gave a sudden start.
``You don't mean Billy--Neilson?''
The other turned sharply.
``Do you know Billy Neilson?''
Calderwell gave his friend a glance from scornful eyes.
``Do I know Billy Neilson?'' he cried. ``Does a fellow usually know the
girl he's proposed to regularly once in three months? Oh, I know I'm
telling tales out of school, of course,'' he went on, in response to the
look that had come into the brown eyes opposite. ``But what's the use?
Everybody knows it--that knows us. Billy herself got so she took it as a
matter of course--and refused as a matter of course, too; just as she

would refuse a serving of apple pie at dinner, if she hadn't wanted it.''
``Apple pie!'' scouted Arkwright.
Calderwell shrugged his shoulders.
``My dear fellow, you don't seem to realize it, but for the last six
months you have been assisting at the obsequies of a dead romance.''
``Indeed! And is it--buried, yet?''
``Oh, no,'' sighed Calderwell, cheerfully. ``I shall go back one of these
days, I'll warrant, and begin the same old game again; though I will
acknowledge that the last refusal was so very decided that it's been a
year, almost, since I received it. I think I was really convinced, for a
while, that--that she didn't want that apple pie,'' he finished with a
whimsical lightness that did not quite coincide with the stern lines that
had come to his mouth.
For a moment there was silence, then Calderwell spoke again.
``Where did you know--Miss Billy?''
``Oh, I don't know her at all. I know of her-- through Aunt Hannah.''
Calderwell sat suddenly erect.
``Aunt Hannah! Is she your aunt, too? Jove! This is a little old world,
after all; isn't it?''
``She isn't my aunt. She's my mother's third cousin. None of us have
seen her for years, but she writes to mother occasionally; and, of course,
for some time now, her letters have been running over full of Billy. She
lives with her, I believe; doesn't she?''
``She does,'' rejoined Calderwell, with an unexpected chuckle. ``I
wonder if you know how she happened to live with her, at first.''
``Why, no, I reckon not. What do you mean?''

Calderwell chuckled again.
``Well, I'll tell you. You, being a `Mary Jane,' ought to appreciate it.
You see, Billy was named for one William Henshaw, her father's chum,
who promptly forgot all about her. At eighteen, Billy, being left quite
alone in the world, wrote to `Uncle William' and asked to come and
live with him.''
``Well?''
``But it wasn't well. William was a forty-year- old widower who lived
with two younger brothers, an old butler, and a Chinese cook in one of
those funny old Beacon Street houses in Boston. `The Strata,' Bertram
called it. Bright boy--Bertram!''
``The Strata!''
``Yes. I wish you could see that house, Arkwright. It's a regular layer
cake. Cyril--he's the second brother; must be thirty-four or five
now--lives on the top floor in a rugless, curtainless, music-mad
existence--just a plain crank. Below him comes William. William
collects things --everything from tenpenny nails to teapots, I should say,
and they're all there in his rooms. Farther down somewhere comes
Bertram. He's the Bertram Henshaw, you understand; the artist.''
``Not the `Face-of-a-Girl' Henshaw?''
``The same; only of course four years ago he wasn't quite so well
known as he is now. Well, to resume and go on. It was into this house,
this masculine paradise ruled over by Pete and Dong Ling in the
kitchen, that Billy's nave request for a home came.''
``Great Scott!'' breathed Arkwright, appreciatively.
``Yes. Well, the letter was signed `Billy.' They took her for a boy,
naturally, and after something of a struggle they agreed to let `him'
come. For his particular delectation they fixed up a room next to
Bertram with guns and fishing rods, and such ladylike specialties; and

William went to the station to meet the boy.''
``With never a suspicion?''
``With never a suspicion.''
``Gorry!''
``Well, `he' came, and