But there are some good things he likes." "There are, indeed, _some_ good things he likes," returned Arkwright, with grim emphasis, his somber eyes fixed on what he believed to be the one especial object of Calderwell's affections at the moment.
Alice, unaware both of the melancholy gaze bent upon herself and of the cause thereof, laughed again merrily.
"Poor Mr.Calderwell," she cried, as she let her fingers slide into soft, introductory chords.

"He isn't to blame for not liking what he calls our lost spirits that wail.

It's just the way he's made." Arkwright vouchsafed no reply.

With an abrupt gesture he turned and began to pace the room moodily.

At the piano Alice slipped from the chords into the nocturne.