Henry Calverly, settled comfortably in the hammock on Mrs Arthur V. Henderson's front porch, behind the honeysuckle vine, listened dreamily.
Beside him in the hammock was Corinne Doag.
At the corner, two houses away, a sizzing, flaring, sputtering arc lamp gave out the only sound and the only light in the neighbourhood. Lower Chestnut Avenue was sound asleep.
The storage battery in the modern automobile will automatically cut itself off from the generator when fully charged. Henry's emotional, nature was of similar construction. Corinne had overcharged him, and automatically he cut her off.
The outer result of this action and reaction was a rather bewildering quarrel.
Early in the present evening, shortly after Humphrey Weaver and Mrs Henderson left the porch for a little ramble to the lake—'Back in a few minutes,' Mildred had remarked—the quarrel had been made up. Neither could have told how. Each felt relieved to be comfortably back on a hammock footing.
Henry, indeed, was more than relieved. He was quietly exultant. The thrill of conquest was upon him. It was as if she were an enemy whom he had defeated and captured. He was experiencing none of the sensations that he supposed were symptoms of what is called love. Yet what he was experiencing was pleasurable. He could even lie back here and think coolly about it, revel in it.
Corinne's head stirred.
'That was midnight,' she murmured.
'What of it?'