'Hen,' he remarked dryly, 'do you really think Anne Mayer Stelton's voice has a velvet suavity?' Henry glanced up from his barley soup, coloured perceptibly, then dropped his eyes and consumed several spoonfuls of the tepid fluid. 'Why not?' said he. 'You feel, do you, that her art has deepened and broadened appreciably since she last appeared in Sunbury?' Henry centred all his attention on the soup. 'You feel that she has really added a superstructure of technique during her study abroad?' Henry's ears were scarlet now. Humphrey, his soup turning cold between his elbows, looked steadily at his deeply unhappy friend. For a moment longer Henry went on eating. But then he quietly laid down his spoon, sank rather limply back in his chair, and wanly met Humphrey's gaze. 'There was a moment this morning, Hen, when I could have wrung your neck. A moment.' Henry's voice was colourless. His expression was that of a man who has absorbed his maximum of punishment, to whom nothing more matters much. 'What is it?' he asked. 'What happened?' 'Madame Stelton fell in the Chicago station, hurrying for the train, and sprained her ankle. Miss Doag gave the entire programme.' Henry sat a little time considering this. Finally he raised his eyes. 'Hump,' he said, 'I don't know that I'm sorry. I'm rather glad you caught me, I think.' It was a difficult speech to meet. Humphrey even found it a moving speech. 'You had an unlucky day,' he said. Henry nodded. The roast beef and potato were before them now; but Henry pushed his aside. He ate nothing more. 'Mrs Henderson was in,' Humphrey added. 'I don't care what they say about her, she's a really pretty woman and bright as all get out.' 'Was she mad, Hump?' 'I--well, yes, I gathered the impression that you'd better not try to talk to her for a while. There she was, you see--came straight down to the office or stopped on her way to the train. Had Miss Doag along. Unusual dark brown eyes--almost black. A striking girl. But you won't meet her--not this trip. Though she couldn't help laughing once or twice. Over your phrases. You see you laid it on unnecessarily thick. _Verve. Timbre_. It puts you--I won't say in a Bad light--but certainly in a rather absurd light.' 'Yes,' said Henry, gently, meekly, 'it does. It sorta completes the thing. I picked up some of the town talk this morning. They're laughing at me. And Martha cut me dead, not an hour ago. I've lost my friends. I'm sort of an outcast, I suppose. A--a pariah.' There was a long silence. 'You'd better eat some food,' said Humphrey.