Henry Is Twenty: A Further Episodic History of Henry Calverly, 3rd. Merwin Samuel

moment would have thrilled him.

      She was singing, softly. Something French, apparently. Once she stopped, and did a phrase over, as if she were practising.

      He stole a glance. She wasn’t even looking at him. She had sunk back on an elbow, her long frame stretched comfortably out, and seemed to be observing the gulls, rather absently.

      Henry came over; sat on a spile; glared at her.

      ‘I skipped that last one seven times,’ said he.

      She gave him an indulgent little smile, and hummed on.

      ‘She doesn’t know I’m here,’ he mused, with bitterness. ‘I don’t count. Nobody wants me.’ And added, ‘She’s selfish.’

      Suddenly he broke out, tragically: ‘You don’t know what I’ve been through. I wouldn’t tell you.’

      The tune came to an end. Still watching the gulls, still absently, she asked, after a pause, ‘Why not?’

      ‘You’d be like the others. You’d despise me.’

      ‘I doubt that. Mildred Henderson certainly doesn’t. You ought to hear her talk about you.’

      ‘She’ll be like the others too. My life has been very hard. Living alone with my way to make. Wha’d she say about me?’

      ‘That you’re a genius. She can’t make out why you’ve been burying yourself, working for a little country paper.’

      Henry considered this. It was pleasing. But he might have wished for a less impersonal manner in Corinne. She kept following those gulls; speaking most casually, as if it was nothing or little to her what anybody thought about anybody.

      Still – it was pleasing. He sat erect. A light glimmered in his eye; glimmered and grew. When he spoke, his voice took on body.

      ‘So she says I’m a genius, eh! Well, maybe it’s true. Maybe I am. I’m something. Or there’s something in me. Sometimes I feel it. I get all on fire with it. I’ve done a few things. I put on Iolanthe here. When I was only eighteen. Chorus of fifty, and big soloists. I ran it – drilled ‘em – ’

      ‘I know. Mildred told me. Mildred really did say you were wonderful.’

      ‘I’ll do something else one of these days.’

      ‘I’m sure you will,’ she murmured politely.

      It was going none too well. She wasn’t really interested. He hadn’t touched her. Perhaps he had better not talk about himself. He thought it over, and decided another avenue of approach would be better.

      ‘That’s an awfully pretty brooch,’ he ventured.

      She glanced down; touched it with her long fingers. The brooch was a cameo, white on onyx, set in beaded old gold.

      ‘It was a present,’ she said. ‘From one of the nicest men I ever knew.’

      This chilled Henry’s heart. His own emotions were none too stable. Out of his first-hand experience he had been able at times, in youthfully masculine company, to expound general views regarding the sex that might be termed cynical. But confronted with the particular girl, the new girl, Henry was an incorrigible idealist.

      It had only vaguely occurred to him that Corinne had men friends. It hurt, just to think of it. And presents – things like that, gold in it – the thing had cost many a penny! His bitterness swelled; blackened his thoughts.

      ‘That’s it,’ these ran now. ‘Presents! Money! That’s what girls want. Keep you dancing. String you. Make you spend a lot on ‘em. That’s what they’re after!’

      The situation was so painful that he got up abruptly and again skipped stones. Until the fact that she let him do it, amused herself practising songs and drinking in the beauty of the place and the day, became quite too much for him.

      When he came gloomily over, she remarked: —

      ‘We must be starting back.’

      He stood motionless; even let her get up, with an amused expression throw his coat over her arm, and take a few steps along the beach.

      ‘Oh, come on, don’t go yet,’ he begged. ‘Why, we’ve only just got here.’

      ‘It’s a long walk. And it’s hot. We’ll never get back for dinner if we don’t start. I mustn’t keep Mildred waiting.’

      He thought, ‘A lot she’d care if she wanted to be with me!’

      He said, ‘What you doing to-night?’

      ‘Oh, a couple of Chicago men are coming out.’

      ‘Oh!’ It was between a grunt and a snort. He struck out at such a gait that she finally said: —

      ‘If you want to walk at that pace I’m afraid you’ll have to walk alone.’

      So far a failure. Just as with Humphrey, the situation had given him no opportunity to display his own kind of thing. The picturesque slang phrase had not then been coined; but Henry was in wrong and knew it. It was defeat.

      The first faint hope stirred when Mrs Henderson rose from a hammock and came to the top step to clasp his hand. She thought him a genius. Well, she had been accompanist through all those rehearsals for Iolanthe. She ought to know.

      She asked him now, in her alertly offhand way, to stay to dinner. He accepted instantly.

      4

      Mildred Henderson was little, slim, quick, with tiny feet and hands. Despite these latter she was the most accomplished pianist in Sunbury. She had snappy little eyes, and a way of smiling quickly and brightly. The Hendersons had lived four or five years in Sunbury. They had no children. They had no servant at this time – but she possessed the gift of getting up pleasant little meals without apparent effort.

      After the arrival of Corinne and Henry she disappeared for a few moments, then called them to the dining-room.

      ‘It’s really a cold lunch,’ she said, as they gathered at the table – ‘chicken and salad and things. But there’s plenty for you, Henry. Do have some iced tea. I know they starve you at that old boarding-house. We’ve all had our little term at Mrs Wilcox’s.’

      ‘I – I’m not living there any more. I’ve moved.’

      ‘Not to Mrs Black’s?’

      ‘No… you see I work with Humphrey Weaver at the Voice office and he asked me to come and live with him.’

      ‘With him? And where does he live?’

      ‘Why, just back of the old Parmenter place.’

      ‘But there’s nothing back of the Parmenter place!’

      ‘Yes – you see, the barn – ’

      ‘Not that old red – ’

      ‘Yes. You’d be surprised! Humphrey’s put in hardwood and electricity and things. He’s really a wonderful person. Did the wiring himself. And the water pipes. You ought to see his books – and his shop downstairs. He’s an inventor, you know. Going to be. Don’t you think for a minute that he’s just a country editor. That’s just while he’s feeling his way. Oh, Hump’s a smart fellow. Mighty decent of him to take me in that way, too; because he’s busy and I know he’d rather live alone. You see, he’s quiet and orderly about things, and I – well, I’m different.’

      ‘Offhand,’ mused Mrs Henderson, ‘I shouldn’t suspect Humphrey Weaver of temperament. But tell me – how on earth do you live? Who cooks and cleans up?’

      ‘Well, Hump gets breakfast and – and we’ll probably take turns cleaning up.’

      ‘You remember Humphrey Weaver, Corinne,’ the little hostess breezed on. ‘You’ve met him. Tall, thin, face wrinkles up when he smiles or speaks to you.’ She added, as if musing aloud, ‘He has nice eyes.’ Then, to Henry:

      ‘But do you mean to say that so fascinating a man as that lives