Before Alfred Knight drifted back she asked him to call. Then, at the sight of them, Alfred drifted away again. 'Perhaps,' she added shyly, 'you'd bring some of your stories.' 'I haven't anything I could bring,' he replied, still with that burning look. 'Nothing 'that's any good. If I had...' Then this blazed from him in a low shaky voice: 'You haven't heard what they're saying about me. I can see that. If you had you wouldn't ask me to call.' 'Oh, I'm sure I would,' she murmured, greatly confused. 'You wouldn't. You really couldn't. But I want to say this--quick, before they come!'--for he saw Mary Ames in the doorway--'I've _got_ to say it! They'll tell you something about me. Something dreadful. It isn't true. It--is--not true!' 'She isn't in there,' said Mary, joining them. Then 'Oh!' She looked at Henry with a hint of alarm in her face; said, 'How do you do!' in a voice that chilled him, brought the despair back; then said to Cicely, ignoring him: 'We'd better tell them.' And moved a step toward the group under the lanterns. Cicely hesitated. It was happening, right there; and in the cruellest manner. Henry couldn't speak. He felt as if a fire were burning in his brain. Al Knight, seeing Mary, drifted back. The group, over yonder, was breaking up. Or coming this way. Another moment and Elberforce Jenkins--tall, really good-looking in his perfect-fitting evening clothes--stood before them. He glanced at Henry. Gave him the cut direct. 'All right,' said Elbow Jenkins, addressing Cicely now, 'we'll go without her. She won't mind.' Still Cicely hesitated. For a moment, standing there, lips parted a little, looking from one to another. Then, with an air of shyness, apparently still confused, she gave Henry her hand. 'Do come,' she said, with a quick little smile. 'And bring the stories. I'm sure I'd like them.' She went with them, then. Henry stared after her with wet eyes. Then for a while he wandered alone among the trees. His thoughts, like his pulse, were racing uncontrollably. It is to be noted that he returned a while later, faced Mrs Jenkins, wrote down the names of all the guests he recognised, and walked, very fast, with a stiff dignity, lips compressed, eyes and brain still burning, down to the _Gleaner_ office. 5 The story had to be written. Not at the rooms, though; Mildred might be there with Humphrey. Sometimes he worked at the Y.M.C.A. But there was a light in the windows of the _Gleaner_ office, over Hemple's. McGibbon was up there, bent over his desk in his shirtsleeves, a hand sprawling through his straight ragged hair. Henry acknowledged his partner's greeting with a grunt; dropped down at his own desk; plunged at the story. McGibbon looked up once or twice, saw that Henry was unaware of him; continued his own work. His thin face looked worn. He bit his lip a good deal. 'There,' said Henry, finally, with a grim look--'there's the reception story.'