The youth flushed at this, and replied, rather explosively;—
'A fellow has to do the sorta thing he can do, Hump!'
'Well—will you be at the rooms this evening?' Humphrey's eyes were again taking in the natty costume. And surveying him, Humphrey answered his own question; dryly. 'I imagine not.'
'Well—I was going over to the Watts.'
There was a long silence:
Finally Henry let himself slowly out and closed the door.
Outside, on the landing, he paused again; but this time to button his coat and pull up the blue-bordered handkerchief in his breast pocket until a corner showed.
He looked too, by the fading light—it was mid-September, and the sun would be setting shortly, out over the prairie—at the tin legend on the door.
The sight seemed to reassure him somewhat. As did the other, similar tin legends that were tacked up between the treads of the long flight of stairs that led to Simpson Street, at each of which he turned to look.
Humphrey had before him a pile of canvas-bound account books, a spindle of unpaid bills, a little heap of business letters, and a pad covered with pencilled columns. He rested an elbow among the papers, turned his chair, and looked through the window down into the street.