Humphrey might have been twenty-five or six. He was a reticent young man, with no girl or women friends that one ever saw, a fondness for the old corn-cob that he was always scraping, filling, or smoking, and a secret passion for the lesser known laws of physics. He lived alone, in a barn back of the old Parmenter place. He had divided the upper story into living and sleeping rooms, and put in hardwood floors and simple furniture and a piano. Downstairs, in what he called his shop, were lathes, a workbench, innumerable wood-and-metal working tools, a dozen or more of heavy metal wheels set, at right angles, in circular frames, and several odd little round machines suspended from the ceiling at the ends of twisted cords. In one corner stood a number of box kites, very large ones. And there were large planes of silk on spruce frames. He was an alumnus of the local university, but had made few friends, and had never been known in the town. Henry hadn't heard of him before the previous year, when he had taken the desk in the _Voice_ office. 'Say, Hen,'--Henry looked up from his copy paper--; 'Mrs Henderson looked in a few minutes ago, and left a programme and a list of guests for her show to-night. She wants to be sure and have you there. You can do it, can't you?' Henry nodded listlessly. 'It seems there's to be a contralto, too--somebody that's visiting her. She--Sister Henderson--appears to take you rather seriously, my boy. Wants you particularly to hear the new girl. One Corinne Doag. We,'--Humphrey smoked meditatively, then finished his sentence--'we talked you over, the lady and I. I promised you'd come.' At noon, the editorial staff of two lunched at Stanley's. 'Wha'd you and Mrs Henderson say about me?' asked Henry, over the pie. 'She says,' remarked Humphrey, the wrinkles multiplying about his eyes, 'that you have temperament. She thinks it's a shame.' 'What's a shame?' muttered Henry. 'Whatever has happened to you. I told her you were the steadiest boy I ever knew. Don't drink, smoke, or flirt. I didn't add that you enter every cent you spend in that little red book; but I've seen you doing it and been impressed. But I mentioned that you're the most conscientious reporter I ever saw. That started her. It seems that you're nothing of the sort. My boy, she set you before me in a new light. You begin to appear complex and interesting.' Still muttering, Henry said, 'Nothing so very interesting about me.' 'It seems that you put on an opera here--directed it, or sang it, or something. Before my time.' 'That was _Iolanthe_,' said Henry, with a momentarily complacent memory. 'And you sang--all over the place, apparently. Why don't you sing now?' 'It's too,'--Henry was mumbling, flushing, and groping for a word--'too physical.' Then, with a sudden movement that gave Humphrey a little start, the boy leaned over the table, pulled at his moustache, and asked, gloomily: 'Listen! Do you think a man can change his nature?'