The Ames place brought up memories of other years and other girls. An odd little scene had occurred here, with Clemency Snow, on one of the lawn seats. And a darker mass of shadow in the gnarled, low-spreading oak, over by the side fence, was a well-remembered platform with seats and a ladder to the ground. Ernestine Lambert had been the girl with him up there. Two long years back! He was eighteen then--a mere boy, with illusions and dreams. He wasn't welcome to Mary Ames's any more. She didn't approve of him. Her mother, too. And he had sunk into a rut of small-town work on Simpson Street. They weren't fair to him. He didn't drink; smoked almost none; let the girls alone more than many young fellows--in spite of a few little things. If he had money... of course. You had to have money. He felt old. And drab of spirit. Those little affairs, even the curious one with Clem Snow, had been, it seemed now, on a higher plane of feeling than this present one with Corinne. Life had been at the spring then, the shrubs dew-pearled, God in his Heaven. And the affair with Ernestine had not been so little. It had shaken him. He wondered where Ernie was now. They hadn't written for a year and a half. And Clem was Mrs Jefferson Jenkins, very rich (Jeff Jenkins was in a bond house on La Salle Street) living in Chicago, on the Lake Shore Drive, intensely preoccupied with a girl baby. People--women and girls--said it was a beautiful baby. Girls were gushy. He pressed a hand to his eyes. Corinne was right; the situation was getting worse every minute. During one or two of the minutes, while his memory was active, it had seemed like an unpleasant dream from which he would shortly waken. But it wasn't a dream. He felt again the tension of it. It was a tension that might easily become unbearable. First thing they knew the university clock would be striking two. He began listening for it; trying absurdly to strain his ears. He had recently seen Minnie Maddem play _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_, and had experienced a painful tension much like this--a strain too great for his sensitive imagination. He had covered his face. And he hadn't gone back for the last act. But there was to be no running out of this. 'Well,' said Corinne, almost briskly, 'we're not getting anywhere.' Humphrey threw out his hand irritably. 'Just--just wait a little,' he said. 'Can't you see....' 'It's past one.' Corinne's manner jarred a little on all three of the others. Mildred seemed to sink even closer toward Humphrey. Henry felt another sob coming. Desperately he swallowed it down. Humphrey, holding Mildred's head against his shoulder, looked up at Corinne. His face was not distinctly visible; but he seemed to be studying the tall, easy-going, unexpectedly practical girl. 'I don't think you understand,' he finally said. 'It's very, very awkward. My hat is in there.' 'Where?' 'In the parlour. On the piano, I think.'