'Well'—Humphrey's voice had the dry, even slightly acid quality that now and then crept into it—'anything special, Hen? Here we are!'
Henry cleared his throat. That huskiness seemed unconquerable. And his over-vivid imagination was playing fantastic tricks on him. Hideous little pictures, very clear. Wives murdering husbands; husbands murdering lovers; dragged-out, soul-crushing scenes in dingy, high-ceiled court-rooms.
Humphrey got up, drew down the window shade behind Mrs Henderson, and turned on the light. She shielded her eyes with a slim hand.
Henry, staring at her, felt her littleness; paused in the rush of his thoughts to dwell on it. She looked prettier to-night, too. The softness that had been in her voice was in her face as well, particularly about the half-shadowed mouth. She was always pretty, but in a trim, neat, brisk way. Now, curled up there in the window-seat, her feet under her very quiet', she seemed like a little girl that you would have to protect from the world and give toys to.
Henry, to his own amazement—and chagrin—covered his face and sobbed.
'Good lord!' said Humphrey. 'What's all this? What's the matter?'
The long silence that followed was broken by Mildred. Still shielding her eyes, without stirring, she asked, quietly:—
'Has my husband come home?'
Henry nodded.
'Where's Corinne?'