Forty minutes later the three sat back in their chairs, weak from laughter, each in his own way excited, aware that a real performance was taking place, right here in the house. 'One thing I don't quite understand,' said Mildred. 'It's a lovely bit of writing--he makes you see it and feel it--where Mr Boice and Charles Waterhouse were around behind the lemonade stand, and Mr Waterhouse is upset because the purse they're going to surprise him with for being the most popular man in town isn't large enough. What _is_ all that, anyway?' 'I know,' said Humphrey. 'I was wondering about that. It's funny as the dickens, those two birds out there behind the lemonade stand quarrelling about it. It's--let's see--oh, yes! And Boice says, “It won't help you to worry, Charlie. We're doing what we can for you. But it'll take time. And it's a chance!”... Funny!' He lowered the manuscript, and stared at the wall. 'Hm!' he remarked thoughtfully. 'Mildred, got any cigarettes?' 'Yes, I have, but I don't care to be mystified like this. Take one, and tell me exactly what you're thinking.' 'I'm thinking that Bob McGibbon would give a hundred dollars for this story as it stands, right now.' 'Why?' 'Because he's gunning for Charlie. And for Boice.' 'And what's this?' 'Evidence.' Humphrey was grave now. 'Not quite it. But warm. Very warm.' 'He's really stumbled on something. How perfectly lovely!' 'And he doesn't know it. Sees nothing but the story value of it. But it may be serious. They'd duck him in the lake. They'd drown him.' 'But how lovely if Henry, by one stroke of his pencil, should really puncture the frauds in this smug town.' 'There is something in that,' mused Humphrey. 'Ssh!' From Mildred. They heard a slow step on the stairs. A moment, and Henry appeared in the doorway. He stopped short when he saw them. His glasses hung dangling against his shirt front. He was coatless, but plainly didn't know it. His straight brown hair was rumpled up on one side and down in a shock over the farther eye. He was pale, and looked tired about the eyes. He carried more of the manuscript. He stared at them as if he couldn't quite make them out, or as if not sure he had met them. Then he brushed a hand across his forehead and slowly, rather wanly, smiled. 'I had no idea it was so late,' he said. Mildred and Corinne fed him and petted him while Humphrey drew a big chair into the dining-room, smoked cigarette after cigarette, and studied the brightening, expanding youth before him. He reflected, too, on the curious, instant responsiveness that is roused in the imaginative woman at the first evidence of the creative impulse in a man. As if the elemental mother were moved.