'It's bad, Hen. Very, very bad. I've tried to keep you from worrying, but you've got to know now. We paid a little over two thousand for this plant and the good will. 'Cheap enough, wasn't it?' cried Henry. 'If we'd really got her for that, yes. But look at the capital it takes. Building up. I had just a thousand more, a bond. Threw that in last month, you know.' 'Oh'--breathed Henry, fright in his eyes--'I forgot about that.' 'And you can't raise a cent.' Henry tried to think this over. He started to speak; swallowed; slipped off the table; stood there; lifted his cane and sighted along it out the window. 'I can--November seventh,' he finally remarked. Humphrey blew a smoke-ring; followed it with his eyes. 'My boy, nations, worlds, constellations, may crash between now and November seventh.' 'I--I could tackle my uncle again,' murmured Henry, out of a despairing face. There was at times an acid quality in Humphrey. Henry felt it in him now, as he said dryly:-- 'As I recall your last transaction with your uncle, Hen, he told you finally that you couldn't have one cent of your principal before November seventh.' 'He--well, yes, he did say that.' 'Meant it, didn't he?' 'Y--yes. He meant it.' 'He's a business man, I believe.' Humphrey smoked for a moment; then added, with that same biting quality in his voice, 'And unless he's insane he would hardly put money into this business now. As it stands--or doesn't stand. And I presume he's not insane. No, we'll drop that subject.' Henry felt Humphrey's eyes on him. Sombre cold eyes. And he fell again, in his misery, to sighting along his cane. It seemed to Henry that the world was reeling to disaster. His young, over keen imagination was painting ugly, inescapable pictures of a savage world in which all effort seemed to fail. Between Humphrey and himself a gulf had opened. It was growing wider every minute. Nothing he could say would help; words were no good. He was afraid he might try to talk. It would be like him; floods of talk, meaningless, mere words, really mere nerves. He clamped his lips on that fear. If I understand Henry, the thing that had brought him to despair--and he was in despair--was neither the sorry condition of the business, nor the trouble with Cicely. These had confused and saddened him. But the hopelessness had come after he saw Humphrey's face and eyes and caught that cool note in his voice. To the day of his death Henry couldn't endure hostility in those close about him. He had to have friendly sympathy, an easy give and take of the spirit in which his _naïveté_ would not be misunderstood. This sort of atmosphere provided, apparently, the only soil in which his faculties could take root and grow. Hostility in those he had been led to trust disarmed him, crushed him. 'Hump,' he ventured now, weakly, 'I think--maybe--you'd better show me those figures. I--I'll try to understand 'em. I will.'