No, there's no chance for a romance there, I'll
warrant.''

``But there's--yourself.''

Calderwell's eyebrows rose the fraction of an
inch.

``Oh, of course. I presume January or February
will find me back there,'' he admitted with a
sigh and a shrug. Then, a little bitterly, he added:
``No, Arkwright. I shall keep away if I can. I
_know_ there's no chance for me--now.''

``Then you'll leave me a clear field?'' bantered
the other.

``Of course--`Mary Jane,' '' retorted Calderwell,
with equal lightness.

``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