Humphrey, too, was using Sunbury as little more than a stop gap. We knew that sooner or later he would strike his gait as an inventor. He was quiet about it. Much thought, deep plans, lay back of that long wrinkly face. While he kept at it he was a conscientious country editor. But his heart was in his library of technical books, and in his workshop in the old Parmenter barn. He must have put just about all of his little inheritance into the place. Corinne Doag was distinctly a city person. And she was a real singer, with ambition and a firm, even hard purpose, I can see now, back of the languorous dusky eyes and the wide slow smile that Henry was not then man enough to understand. In those days, more than in the present, a girl with a strong sense of identity was taught to hide it scrupulously. It was still the century of Queen Victoria. The life of any live girl had to be a rather elaborate pretence of something it distinctly was not. For which we, looking back, can hardly blame her. Besides, Corinne was young, healthy, glowing with a quietly exuberant sense of life. I imagine she found a sort of pure joy, an animal joy, in playing with men and life. She wasn't dishonest. She certainly liked Henry. Particularly to-day. But this was the summer time. She was playing. And she liked to be, thrilled. An hour later, could Humphrey have glanced into the butler's pantry, he would have concluded that he knew Henry Calverly not at all. And Miss Wombast, could she have looked in, would have been thrilled and frightened, perhaps to the point of never speaking to Henry again. And of never, never forgetting him. As the scene has a bearing on the later events of the day, we will take a look. They stood in the butler's pantry, Henry and Corinne. The shards of a shattered coffee cup lay unobserved at their feet. Out in the kitchen sink all the silver and the other cups and saucers lay in the rinsing rack, the soapsuds dry on them. Henry held Corinne in his arms. 'Henry,' she whispered, 'we _must_ finish the dishes! What on earth will Mildred think?' 'Let her think!' said Henry. Corinne leaned back against the shelves, disengaged her hands long enough to smooth her flying blue-black hair. 'Henry, I never thought----' 'Never thought what?' 'Wait! My hair's all down again. They might come out here. I mean you seemed----' 'How did I seem? Say it!' 'Oh well--_Henry_!--I mean sort of--well, reserved. I thought you were shy.' 'Think so now!' 'I--well, no. Not exactly. Wait now, you silly boy! Really, Henry, you musn't be so--so intense.' 'But I _am_ intense. I'm not the way I look. Nobody knows----' Here he interrupted himself. 'Oh, Henry,' she breathed, her head on his shoulder now, her arm clinging about his neck. He felt very manly. Life, real life, whirled, glowed, sparkled about him. He was exultant. 'You dear boy--I'm afraid you've made love to lots of girls.' 'I _haven't!_' he protested, with unquestionable sincerity. 'Not to lots.'