On the earlier occasion when she had overtaxed his emotional capacity he had got out of it by using the forces she stirred in him as a stimulant. But now he wasn't stimulated. Not, at least, in that way. His spirit seemed to be dead. Only his body was alive. All the excitement of the evening had played with cumulative force on his nerves. He had arrived at an emotional crisis; and was facing it sullenly but unresistingly. The picture of Mildred and Humphrey lost in each other's gaze--in the window-seat at the rooms, on the Ames's horse block--kept coming up in his mind. He could see them in the flesh, walking on ahead, arm in arm, but still more vividly he could see them as they had been before he went back to Mildred's house. He knew that love had come to them. He wondered, trembling with the excitement of the mere thought, how it would seem to live through that miracle. No such magic had fallen upon him.. Not since the days of Ernestine. And that had been pretty youthful business. This matter of Corinne was quite different. He sighed. Then he hurried up to her, gripped her arm, walked close beside her. At the beach they paired off as a matter of course. Henry and Corinne sat in the shadow of a breakwater. Humphrey and Mildred walked on to another breakwater. Corinne made herself comfortable with her head resting on Henry's arm. He was thinking, 'Sort of thing you dream of without ever expecting it really. Ain't a fellow' in town that wouldn't envy me.' But gloom was settling over his spirit like a fog. It seemed to him that he ought to be whispering skilful little phrases, close to her ear. He couldn't think of any. He bent over her face; looked into it; smoothed her dusky hair away from her temples. He began humming: 'I arise from dreams of thee.' She picked it up, very softly, in a floating, velvety pianissimo. His own voice died out. He couldn't sing. He felt almost despondent. What was the matter with him! Time passed. Now and then she hummed other songs--bits of Schumann and Franz. Schubert's _Serenade_ she sang through. 'Sing with me,' she murmured. He shook his head. 'Sometimes I feel like singing, and sometimes I don't.' 'Don't I make you feel like singing, Henry?' 'Oh yes, sure!' 'You're a moody boy, Henry.' 'Oh yes, I'm moody.' She closed her eyes. He watched the dim vast lake for a while; then finding her almost limp in his arms, bent again over her face. 'I'm a fool,' he thought. He could have sobbed again. He bit his lip. Then kissed her. It was the first moment he had been able to. Her hand slipped over his shoulder; her arm tightened about his neck. Abruptly he stopped; raised his head, a bitter question in his eyes. 6