he bush.
He did love Alice Greggory; but so curiously and unbelievably stupid had
he been that he had not found it out until now. And now it was too late.
Had not even Billy called his attention to the fact of Calderwell's
devotion? Besides, had not he himself, at the very first, told
Calderwell that he might have a clear field?

Fool that he had been to let another thus lightly step in and win from
under his very nose what might have been his if he had but known his own
mind before it was too late!

But was it, after all, quite too late? He and Alice were old friends.
Away back in their young days in their native town they had been,
indeed, almost sweethearts, in a boy-and-girl fashion. It would not have
taken much in those days, he believed, to have made the relationship
more interesting. But changes had come. Alice had left town, and for
years they had drifted apart. Then had come Billy, and Billy had found
Alice, thus bringing about the odd circumstance of their renewing of
acquaintanceship. Perhaps, at that time, if he had not already
thought he cared for Billy, there would have been something more than
acquaintanceship.

But he _had_ thought he cared for Billy all these years; and now, at
this late day, to wake up and find that he cared for Alice! A pretty
mess he had made of things! Was he so inconstant then, so fickle? Did he
not know his own mind five minutes at a time? What would Alice Greggory
think, even if he found the courage to tell her? What could she think?
What could anybody think?

Arkwright fairly ground his teeth in impotent wrath--and he did not know
whether he were the most angry that he did not love Billy, or that he
had loved Billy, or that he loved somebody else now.

It was while he was in this unenviable frame of mind that he went to
see Alice. Not that he had planned definitely to speak to her of his
discovery, nor yet that he had planned not to. He had, indeed, planned
nothing. For a man usually so decided as to purpose and energetic as
to action, he was in a most unhappy state of uncertainty and
changeableness. One thing only was unmistakably clear to him, and that
was that he must see Alice.

For months, now, he had taken to Alice all his hopes and griefs,
perplexities and problems; and never had he failed to find comfort
in the shape of sympathetic understanding and wise counsel. To Alice,
therefore, now he turned as a matter of course, telling himself vaguely
that, perhaps, afte