Henry came over; sat on a spile; glared at her. 'I skipped that last one seven times,' said he. She gave him an indulgent little smile, and hummed on. 'She doesn't know I'm here,' he mused, with bitterness. 'I don't count. Nobody wants me.' And added, 'She's selfish.' Suddenly he broke out, tragically: 'You don't know what I've been through. I wouldn't tell you.' The tune came to an end. Still watching the gulls, still absently, she asked, after a pause, 'Why not?' 'You'd be like the others. You'd despise me.' 'I doubt that. Mildred Henderson certainly doesn't. You ought to hear her talk about you.' 'She'll be like the others too. My life has been very hard. Living alone with my way to make. Wha'd she say about me?' 'That you're a genius. She can't make out why you've been burying yourself, working for a little country paper.' Henry considered this. It was pleasing. But he might have wished for a less impersonal manner in Corinne. She kept following those gulls; speaking most casually, as if it was nothing or little to her what anybody thought about anybody. Still--it was pleasing. He sat erect. A light glimmered in his eye; glimmered and grew. When he spoke, his voice took on body. 'So she says I'm a genius, eh! Well, maybe it's true. Maybe I am. I'm something. Or there's something in me. Sometimes I feel it. I get all on fire with it. I've done a few things. I put on _Iolanthe_ here. When I was only eighteen. Chorus of fifty, and big soloists. I ran it--drilled 'em----' 'I know. Mildred told me. Mildred really did say you were wonderful.' 'I'll do something else one of these days.' 'I'm sure you will,' she murmured politely. It was going none too well. She wasn't really interested. He hadn't touched her. Perhaps he had better not talk about himself. He thought it over, and decided another avenue of approach would be better. 'That's an awfully pretty brooch,' he ventured. She glanced down; touched it with her long fingers. The brooch was a cameo, white on onyx, set in beaded old gold. 'It was a present,' she said. 'From one of the nicest men I ever knew.' This chilled Henry's heart. His own emotions were none too stable. Out of his first-hand experience he had been able at times, in youthfully masculine company, to expound general views regarding the sex that might be termed cynical. But confronted with the particular girl, the new girl, Henry was an incorrigible idealist. It had only vaguely occurred to him that Corinne had men friends. It hurt, just to think of it. And presents--things like that, gold in it--the thing had cost many a penny! His bitterness swelled; blackened his thoughts. 'That's it,' these ran now. 'Presents! Money! That's what girls want. Keep you dancing. String you. Make you spend a lot on 'em. That's what they're after!'