They walked down to the little place by the tracks. Humphrey had a roast-beef sandwich and coffee; Henry gloomily devoured two cream puffs.
There Humphrey drew out something of the story. It was difficult at first. Henry could babble forth his most sacred inner feelings with an ingenuous volubility that would alarm a naturally reticent man, and he could be bafflingly secretive. To-night he was both, and neither. He was full of odd little spiritual turnings and twistings—vague as to the clock, intent on justifying himself, submerged in a boundless bottomless sea of self-pity. Humphrey, touched, even worried, finally went at him with direct questions, and managed to piece out the incident of the Thursday morning in the boy's room.
'But I never asked her in,' he hurried to explain. 'She came in. Maybe after that it was my fault, but I didn't ask her in.'
'But as far as I can see, Hen, it wasn't so serious. You didn't make love to her.'
'I tried to.'
'Oh yes. She doubtless expected that. But she got away.'
'But don't you see, Hump, Mrs MacPherson saw her coming out. She'd been snooping. Musta heard some of it. That's why Mamie hung around for me yesterday noon.'
'Oh, she hung around?'
Henry swallowed, and nodded. 'That's why I slipped out again after lunch yesterday. I didn't want to tell you.'
'Naturally. A man's little flirtations——'