Henry Is Twenty. Samuel Merwin

gaily, with supreme ease—'w'e'll send those Chicago men a box of poisoned candy to-morrow, and—oh, yes w-e will!—and then we'll have a party at the rooms. You'll be chaperon, Mrs Henderson and Hump'll cook things in the chafing dish, and——'

      'What a perfectly lovely idea!' said Mrs Henderson in a surprisingly calm voice. 'I'll bring the cold chicken, and a vegetable salad...

      Henry watched Corinne.

      For an instant—she was rummaging through the music—her eyes met his. 'It'll be fun,' she said.

      Henry felt a shock as if he had plunged unexpectedly, headlong, into ice-water; then a glow.

      He was a daring soul. They didn't understand him in Sunbury. He had temperament, a Bohemian nature. The thing was, he'd wasted two years trying to make another sort of himself. Kept account of every penny in a red book! All that! Book was in his pocket now.

      He decided to tear it up. He wouldn't be a coward another day. That plodding self-discipline hadn't got him anywhere. Now really, had it?

      Little inner voices were protesting weakly. People might find out about it. Have to be pretty quiet. And keep the shades down. It wouldn't do for the folks in the parsonage, across the alley, to know that Mrs Arthur V. Henderson and her guest were in the Parmenter barn. Have to find some tactful way of suggesting that they come after dark...

      As if she could read his thoughts, Mrs Henderson remarked calmly: 'You come for us, Henry. Say about eight.'

      Still the little voices of doubt and confusion. Even of fear. He mentally shouted them down; fixing his eyes on the disturbingly radiant Corinne, then glancing for moral support at the really pretty little Mrs Henderson who gave out such a reassuring air of knowing precisely what she was about, of being altogether in the right. Funny, knowing her all these years, he hadn't realised she was so nice!

      He had turned defeat into victory. Single-handed. Will and Fred could go sit on the Wells Street bridge and eat bananas. He had settled their hash.

5

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      To this lofty mood there came, promptly? an opposite and fully equal reaction.

      Difficulties having arisen in connection with the problem of breaking the news to Humphrey, he couldn't very well go back to the rooms.

      The thing would have to be put right before Humphrey. He decided to think it over. That was the idea—think it over. Humphrey would be eating his supper, if not at the rooms, then at Stanley's little restaurant on Simpson Street. So he could hardly go to Stanley's. There was another little lunch room down by the tracks, but Humphrey had been known to go there. And of course it was impossible to return for a transient meal to Mrs Wilcox. For one thing, the student waiters would be off and Mamie Wilcox on duty in the dining-room. He didn't want Mamie back in his life. Not if he could help it. He even went so far as to wonder, with a paralysing sense of helplessness in certain conceivable contingencies, if he could help it... So instead of eating supper he sat on a breakwater, alone, unobserved, while the golden sunset glow faded from lake and sky and darkness claimed him for her own.

      Later, handkerchief over face, rushing and pawing his way through the myriads of sand-flies that swarmed about each corner light, he walked into the neighbourhood of Martha Caldwell's house. He walked backhand forth for a time on the other side of the street, and stood motionless by trees. He found the situation trying, as he didn't know why he had come, whether he wanted to see Martha or what he could say to her.

      He could hear voices from the porch. And he thought he could see one white dress.

      Then, because it seemed to be the next best thing to do, he crossed over and mounted the familiar front steps.

      He found himself touching the non-committal hand of James B. Merchant, Jr., who carried the talk along glibly, ignoring the gloomy youth with the glasses and the tiny moustache who sat in a shadow and sulked. Finally, after deliberately, boldly arranging a driving party of two for Monday evening, the cotillion leader left.

      Martha, when he had disappeared beyond the swirling, illuminated sand-flies at the corner, settled back in her chair and stared, silent, at the maples.

      Henry struggled for speech.

      'Martha, look here,' came from him, in a tired voice, 'you've cut me dead. Twice. Now it seems to me——'

      'I don't want to talk about that,' said Martha.

      'But it isn't fair not to——'

      'Please don't try to tell me that you weren't at Hoffmann's with that horrid girl.'

      'I'm not trying to. But——'

      'You took her there, didn't you?'

      'Yes, but she——'

      'She didn't make you. You knew her pretty well. While you were going with me, too.'

      'Oh, well,' he muttered. Then, 'Thunder! If you're just determined not to be fair——

      'I won't let you say that to me.' The snap in her voice stung him.

      'You're not fair! You won't even let me talk!'

      'What earthly good is talk!'

      'Oh, if you're going to take that attitude——'

      She rose. So did he.

      'I can't and I won't talk about a thing like that,' she said quickly, unevenly.

      'Then I suppose I'd better go,' said he, standing motionless.

      She made no reply.

      They stood and stood there. Across the street, at B. F. Jones's, a porch full of young people were singing Louisiana Lou. Henry, out of sheer nervousness, hummed it with them; then caught himself and turned to the steps.

      'Well,' he remarked listlessly, 'I'll say good-night, then.'

      Still she was silent. He lingered, but she gave him no help. He hadn't believed that she could be as angry as this. He waited and waited. He even felt and weighed the impulses to go right to her and make her sit in the hammock with him and bring back something of the old time feeling.

      But he found himself moving off down the steps and heading for the yellow cloud at the corner.

      He hated the sand-flies. Their dead bodies formed a soft crunchy carpet on pavement and sidewalk. You couldn't escape them. They came for a week or two in June. They were less than an inch long, pale yellow with gauzy wings. They had neither sting nor pincers. They overwhelmed these lake towns by their mere numbers. Down by the bright lights on Simpson Street they literally covered everything. You couldn't see through a square inch of Donovan's wide plateglass front. Mornings it was sometimes necessary to clear the sidewalks with shovels.

      It was two or three hours later when Henry crept cautiously into Humphrey's shop and ascended the stairs.

      Humphrey had left lights for him. He was awake, too; there was a crack of light at the bottom of his bedroom door. But the door was shut tight.

      Henry put out all the lights and shut himself in his own disorderly room.

      He stood for a time looking at the mess; everything he owned, strewed about on chairs, table and floor. Everything where it had fallen.

      He considered finishing unpacking the suit-case. Pushed it with his foot.

      'Just have to get at these things,' he muttered aloud. 'Make a job of it. Do it the first thing to-morrow, before I go to the office.'

      Then he dug out the box of books that stood beside the bed, the volume entitled Will Power and Self Mastery.

      He sat on the bed for an hour, reading one or another of the vehemently pithy sentences, then gazing at the wall,