Mr Boice's desk, up in the front window, outside the railing, stood vacant. The proprietor might or might not stop in on the early-afternoon trip from his house on Upper Chestnut Avenue to the post-office. Mr Boice could do as he liked. His time was his own. He lived on the labour of others. A fact which often stirred up in Henry's breast a rage that was none the less bitter because it was impotent. It was the sort of thing, he felt, in his more nearly lucid moments, that you have to stand--the wall against which you must beat your head year after year. Henry, victorious over the fly, settled back. He tried to work. Then sat for a time brooding. Then, finally, turned to his friend. 'Hump,' he said, 'I--I know you wouldn't think I had much to do--I mean the way you get work done--I don't know what it is--but I wish I could see a way to begin on all this new work. I know I'm no good, but----' 'I wouldn't say that.' Humphrey, glad of a brief respite, settled back in his swivel chair. 'I could never have written that picnic story. Never in the world. We're different, that's all. You're a racer; I'm a work-horse. I don't know just what it's coming to. He isn't handling you right.' 'That's it!' Henry cried, softly, eagerly. 'He _isn't!_' 'I suppose you know now about Miss Dittenhoefer.' Henry's head bowed in assent. 'I didn't have the heart to tell you myself, Hen.' He picked up his proofs, then looked up and out of the window. 'There,' he remarked unexpectedly, 'is a pretty girl!' Henry turned with the quickness of long habit. 'Where?' he asked, then discovered the young person in question standing on the hotel veranda talking with Mrs B. L. Ames and Mary Ames. She was a new girl. Even now, though Henry had given up girls for good, she caused a quickening of his pulse. She _was_ pretty--rather slender, in a blue skirt and a trim white shirt-waist, and an unusual amount of darkish hair that massed effectively about a face, the principal characteristics of which, at this distance and through the screen door, was a bright, almost eager smile. It is a not uninteresting fact, to those who know something of Henry's susceptibility on previous occasions, that his gaze wandered moodily back to his table. He sighed. His hand strayed up and began pulling at his little moustache. 'You haven't told me what I'm to do about it, Hump. This society thing really stumps me.' 'I haven't known quite what to say. That's all, Hen. The old man is riding you, of course. I didn't think, when he raised you to twelve a week, that he'd just lie down and pay it. Meekly. Not he! He's a crafty old duck. Very, very crafty--Cheese it; here he comes!' The shadow of Norton P. Boice fell across the door-step. The screen door opened with a squeak, and ponderously the quietly dominating force of Simpson Street, came in, inclined his massive head in an impersonal greeting, and lowered his huge bulk into his chair. 'Henry!' called Mr Boice in his quietly husky voice.