'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?'
Humphrey considered this without a smile. 'I don't see exactly how, Hen.'
'I mean if he's been heedless and reckless—oh, you know, girls, debts, everything. Just crazy, sorta.'
'Well, I suppose a man can reform. Were you a very bad lot?' The wrinkled smile was reassuring.