Martha was a sizable girl, about as tall as Henry, with large blue eyes, an attractively short nose, abundant brown hair coiled away under her flat straw hat, and a general air of good sense. Martha was really a goodlooking young woman, and would have been popular had not Henry stood in her light. She had a small gift at drawing (the Gibson copies in Henry's room were hers) and danced gracefully enough. Monday and Thursday evenings were his regular calling times; and there were so many other evenings when he was expected to take her to this house or that with 'the crowd' that the other local 'men' had long since given up calling at her house. But they were not engaged. On this occasion there was constraint between them. They spoke of the lovely weather. She, knowing Henry pretty well, looked with some curiosity at his book. Henry glanced sidelong at her across a wide bottomless gulf, and stroked his moustache. He was groping desperately for words. He began to resent her. He presented an outer front of stem self-control. At the corner they stopped and stood in a silence that grew rapidly embarrassing. She lowered her eyes and dug with the point of her parasol in the turf by the stone walk. He thrust both hands into his trousers' pockets, spread his feet, and stared across at the long veranda of the Sunbury House. It seemed to him that he had never been so unhappy. 'Are you'--Martha began; hesitated; went on--'were you thinking of coming around this evening?' 'Why--it's Thursday, ain't it?' 'Yes,' she said, 'it's Thursday.' 'Listen, Martha!' Was it possible that she suspected something? But how could she! His ears were getting red again. He knew it. She must never, never know about Mamie!... 'Listen, I may have to go down to Mrs Arthur V. Henderson's.' 'Oh,' she murmured, 'that musicale.' 'Yes.' Eagerness was creeping into his voice. 'Anne Mayer Stelton. She's been over studying with Marchesi, you know. Mrs Henderson asked specially to have me cover it.' 'Why don't you go?' 'Well--you see how it is. Of course, I'd hate----' 'You'd better go.' Saying which Martha turned away down Filbert Avenue, and left him standing there. He bit his lip; pulled at his moustache. 'I ought to do something for her,' he thought. 'Buy some flowers--or a box of Devoe's.' This was an idle thought; for the day, Thursday, lay much too close to the financially lean end of the week to permit of flowers or candy. And he hadn't asked anywhere for a dollar of credit these nearly two years. Still, he felt faintly the warmth of his kindly intention. It didn't seem altogether right to let her go like that. They had not before drifted so near a quarrel. On the farther side of the street he paused, and glanced down the avenue.