Humphrey was trying, by a mighty effort of will, to get himself back into that maudlin state of pity which had brought on all this trouble. If he could only manage again to feel sorry for the boy, perhaps he could stand him. But he could only bite his pipe-stem. He was afraid he might say something he would be sorry for. No good in that, of course.... No more peaceful study, all alone, propped up in bed, with a pipe and reading light! No more wonderful nights in the shop downstairs! No more holding to a delicately fresh line of thought--balancing along like a wire-walker over a street! The boy was over by the stairs now, all apologies, mumbling useless words. But he was going--no doubt whatever as to that. 'I'm late now,' he was saying.'What else can I do, Hump? I promised. She'll be looking for me now. If you just wouldn't be in such a thundering hurry about those darn dishes... I can't live like a machine. I just can't!' 'You could have cleaned up your room while you've been standing there,' said Humphrey, in a rumbling voice. 'No, I couldn't! Put up all my pictures and books and things! I'm not like you. You don't understand!' Humphrey wheeled on him, pipe in hand, a cold light in his eyes, a none-too-agreeable smile wrinkling the lower part of his face. 'I'm not asking much of you,' he said. 'Oh, thunder, Hump! Do you think I don't appreciate--' 'I'd be glad to help you. But you've got to do a _little_ on your own account. For God's sake show some spine!' Sand-fly! Damn it, this is more than I can stand! It smothers me! How can I work! How can I think!' He stopped short; bit his lip; turned back to the window and thrust his pipe into his mouth. Humphrey knew without looking that the boy was fussing endlessly at that absurd moustache. And sighing--he heard that. He bit hard on his pipe-stem. The day was wrecked already. He would be boiling up every few moments; tripping over Henry's things; regretting his perhaps too harsh words. Yes, they were too harsh, of course. Henry was muttering, mumbling, tracing out the pattern in the rug-border with his silly little stick. These words were audible:-- 'I don't see why you asked me to come here. I suppose I... Of course, if you don't want me to stay here with you, I suppose I... Oh, well! I guess I ain't much good....' The voice trailed huskily off into silence. After all, there didn't seem to be any place the boy could stay, if not here. Living alone in a boarding-house hadn't worked at all. To send him out into the world would be like condemning him. Henry moved off down the stairs, slowly, pausing once as if he had not yet actually determined to go. Walking more briskly, he emerged from the alley and swung around into Filbert Avenue. The starched and shining children were pouring in an intermittent stream into the First Presbyterian chapel, behind the big church.