'Not she. She won't budge from the stairs. And she flared up when I suggested bringing up a tray. I never thought that Corinne was romantic, but... Well, it gives us a nice little _téte-à-tête_ supper. I've made iced coffee, Humphrey. Just dip into the salad, won't you!' After supper they went out to the hall. Corinne, still on the top step, had switched on the light and was sorting out a pile of loose sheets. She beckoned to them. They came tiptoeing up the stairs. 'I can't make it out,' she whispered. 'It isn't poetry. And he doesn't number his pages.' 'How did you ever get them?' asked Mildred. 'Went in and gathered them up. He didn't hear me. He's still at it.' Humphrey reached for the sheets; held them to the light; read bits of this sheet and that; found a few that went together and read them in order; finally turned a wrinkled astonished face to the two young women. 'What is it?' they asked. He chuckled softly. 'Well, it isn't poetry.' 'I saw that much,' Corinne murmured, rather mournfully. 'It's--wait a minute! I couldn't believe it at first. It--no--yes, that's what it is.' '_What!_' Then Humphrey dropped down at Mildred's feet, and laughed, softly at first, then with increasing vigour. Mildred clapped her hand over his mouth and ran him down the stairs and through into the living-room. There they dropped side by side on the sofa and laughed until tears came. Corinne, laughing a little herself now, but perplexed, followed them. 'Here,' said Humphrey, when he could speak, 'let's get into this.' They moved, to the table. Humphrey spread out the pages, and skimmed them over with a practised eye, arranging as he read. Once he muttered, 'What on earth!' And shortly after: 'Why, the young devil!' 'Please--' said Corinne. 'Please! I want to know what it is.', Humphrey stacked up the sheets, and laid them on the table. 'Well,' he remarked, 'it is certainly an account of the Business Men's Picnic. And it certainly was _not_ written for _The Weekly Voice of Sunbury_. I'll start in a minute and read it through. But from what I've seen---- Well, while it may be a little Kiplingesque--naturally--still it comes pretty close to being a work of art. 'Tell you what the boy's done. He's gone at that little community outing just about as an artistic god would have gone at it. As if he'd never seen any of these Simpson Street folks before. Berger, the grocer, and William F. Donovan, and Mr Wombast, and Charlie Waterhouse, and Weston of the bank, and--and, here, the little Dutchman that runs the lunch counter down by the tracks, and Heinie Schultz and Bill Schwartz, and old Boice! It's a crime what he's done to Boice. If this ever appears, Sunbury will be too small for Henry Calverly. But, oh, it's grand writing.... He's got'em all in, their clothes, their little mannerisms--their tricks of speech... Wait, I'll read it.'