By the front steps there were arched openings in the canvas. Up there in the light were music and rustling, continuous movement and the unearthly cackling sound that you hear when you listen with a detached mind to many chattering voices in an enclosed space. Mrs Jenkins was up there, doubtless, at the head of a reception line. He knew now, with despair in his heart, that he couldn't mount those steps. Nearly everybody there would know him. He couldn't do it. He looked around. At one side stood a jolly little group, under the Japanese lanterns. Young people. Two detached themselves and came toward the steps. A third joined them; a girl. 'Here,' said this girl--Mary Ames's voice--'you two wait here. I'll find her.' Mary came right past him and ran up the steps. Henry drew back, very white, curiously breathless. The other two stood close at hand. Henry wondered if he could slip away. New carriages had arrived; new people were coming up the walk. He stepped off on the grass. He found difficulty in thinking. The girl, just across the walk, was Cicely Hamlin. The fellow was Alfred Knight. He worked in the bank; a colourless youth. He plainly didn't know what to say to this very charming new girl. He stood there, shifting his feet. Henry thought: 'Has he heard yet? Does he know?... Does _she_ know?' Then Alfred's wandering eye rested on him, hailed him with relief. 'Oh, hallo. Hen;' he said. Then, after a long silence, 'Like you to meet Miss Hamlin. Mr Henry Calverly.' Al Knight never could remember whether you said the girl's name first or the man's. But he hadn't heard yet. Evidently. Henry sighed. Since it had to come, it would be almost better... Miss Cicely Hamlin moved a hesitant step forward; murmured his name. He had to step forward too. In sheer miserable embarrassment he raised his hand a little way. In responsive confusion she raised hers. But his had dropped. Hers moved downward as his came up again. She smiled at this and extended her hand again frankly. He took it. He didn't know that he was gripping it in a strong nervous clasp. 'I've heard of you,' she said. He liked her voice. 'You write, don't you?' 'Oh yes,' said he huskily, 'I write some.' She didn't know. He wondered dully who could have told her of him. It sounded like the old days. It was almost, for a moment, encouraging. Al Knight drifted away to speak to one of the new-comers. 'Do you write stories?' she asked politely. 'I try to, sometimes. It's awfully hard.' 'Oh yes, I know.' 'Do _you_ write?' 'Why--oh no! But I've wished I could. I've tried a little.' So far as words went they might as well have been mentioning the weather. It was not an occasion in which words had any real part. He saw, felt, the presence of a girl unlike any he had known--slimly pretty, alive with a quick eager interest, and subtly friendly. She saw, and felt, a white tragic face out of which peered eyes with a gloomy fire in them.