1

There is nothing more unsettling than a sudden uncalculated, incalculable success. It at once thrills, depresses, confuses. People attack with the most unexpected venom. Others, the most unexpected others, defend with vehemence, One feels queerly out of it, yet forlornly conspicuous. As if it were some one else, or a dream. Innocent effort dragged to the public arena, quarrelled over, misunderstood. One boasts and apologises in a breath; dreads the thing will keep up and fears it will stop; finds one day it has stopped and ever after thinks back in sentimental retrospect to the good old days, the great days, when one did stir them up a bit.

Henry awoke on this Saturday morning to a sense of trouble that hung heavily over him during the walk with Humphrey from the rooms to Stanley's. Nothing of the stir reached them here. They were so late that the restaurant was about empty. Humphrey did hear a faint, distant voice booming, but gave no particular thought to it at the moment. And the Stanleys went quietly about their business as usual. Henry, indeed, was deep in his personal concern.

This found words over the oatmeal. He drew a rumpled paper from his pocket and submitted it to his room mate.

'Got this last night,' Henry explained moodily.

Humphrey read the following pencilled communication:—

'Henry Calverly, can't you see that your attentions are making it hard for a certain young lady? Do you want to injure her reputation along with yours? Why don't you do the decent thing and leave town!

'A Round Robin of People Who Know You.'

Humphrey pursed his lips over it.

'It's the Mamie Wilcox trouble, of course,' he said finally.

Henry nodded. His mouth drooped at the corners. There was a shine in his eyes.

Humphrey folded the paper; handed it back.

'Do you know who did it?'

Henry shook his head. 'They printed it out. Oh, I can make guesses, of course. It's about Cicely Hamlin and me.'

'You can't do anything.'

'I know.'

'And maybe you're going to be so successful that it won't matter. Laugh at 'em.'

'I don't believe that, Hump. I can't even imagine it.'

'At that, it may be jealousy.'

'I've thought of that. Even if it is...' they're partly right. I didn't do what they think, but... Don't you see, Hump?'

'Oh, yes, I see clearly enough.'

'I've felt it. When I was all stirred up over my work, I went there to call. Last Saturday night. Then I got to thinking.' His voice was unsteady, but he kept on. Rather doggedly. 'I've stayed away all this week. Just worked. You know. You've seen how I've kept at it. Until Thursday night. I sorta slipped up then and went around there. She was out. And that's all. I've thought I—I've felt... Hump, do you believe in love—you know—at first sight?'

Humphrey's long face wrinkled into a rather wry smile, then sobered.

'I ought to,' he replied. 'In a way it was like that—with me.'