'Silly!' A silence. Then he felt her draw even closer to him. 'Henry, talk to me! Make love to me! Tell me you'll take me away with you--to-day!--now! Make me feel how wonderful it would be! Say it, anyway--even if--oh, Henry, _say_ it!' For an instant Henry's mind went cold and clear. He was a little frightened. He found himself wondering if this tempestuous young woman who clung so to him could possibly be the easy, lazy, comfortably smiling Corinne. He thought of Carmen--the Carmen of Calvé. He had suped once in that opera down at the Auditorium. He had paid fifty cents to the supe captain. The thrill of the conqueror was his. But he was beginning to feel that this was enough, that he had best rest his case, perhaps, at this' point. As for asking her to fly away with him, he couldn't conscientiously so much as ask her to have dinner with him in Chicago. Not in the present state of his pocket. One fact, however, emerged. He must propose something. He could at least have it out with old Boice. Settle that salary business. He'd _have_ to. Another fact is that he was by no means so cool as he, for the moment, fancied himself. The door from dining-room to kitchen opened, rather slowly. There was a light step in the kitchen, and Mildred Henderson's musical little voice humming the theme of the Andante in the Fifth Symphony. Henry and Corinne leaped apart. She smoothed her hair again, and patted her cheeks. Then she took a black hair from his shoulder. They heard Mildred at the sink. Rinsing the dishes and the silver, doubtless. 'Hate to disturb you two,' she called, a reassuring if slightly humorous sympathy in her voice, 'but I promised Humphrey I'd get after you, Henry. He says you simply must get some work done to-day.' Henry stood motionless, trying to think.' 'Do your work here,' Corinne whispered. 'Stay.' He shook his head. 'A lot I'd get done--here with you. Now.' 'I'll help you. Couldn't I be just a little inspiration to you?' 'It ain't inspiring work.' 'Henry--write something for me! Write me a poem! 'All right. Not to-day, though. Gotta do this Business Men's Picnic. Then he said, 'Wait a minute;' went into the kitchen. 'Going over town,' he remarked, offhand, to Mrs Henderson. At the outer door, Corinne murmured: 'You'll come back, Henry?' With a vague little wave of one hand, and a perplexed expression, he replied: 'Yes, of course.' And hurried off. 6 Mr Boice wasn't at his desk at the _Voice_ sanctum. Henry could see that much through the front window. He didn't go in. He felt that he couldn't talk with Humphrey--or anybody--right now. Except old Boice. He was gunning for him. Equal to him, too. Equal to anything. Blazing with determination. Could lick a regiment. He found his employer down at the post-office. In his little den behind the money-order window. He asked Miss Hemple, there, if he could please speak to Mr Boice.