The early September twilight was settling down on Sunbury.
Lights came on, here and there. The dusk was a relief.
He had wrecked everything. It wasn't so much that he had proposed an understanding. In the circumstances she couldn't altogether object to that. It was risking the vital, final decision, of course. But that, sooner or later, would have to be risked. That was something a man had to face, and go through, and be a sport about. No, the trouble seemed to be that he had lost himself. He had made it awkward, impossible, for both of them. Through his impatience he had created an impossible situation. And in losing himself he had lost her, and lost her in the worst way imaginable. He had contrived to make an utterly ridiculous figure of himself, and, in a measure, of her. He had to set his teeth hard on that thought, and compress his lips.
He was on Simpson Street again. Yellow gas-light shone out of the windows of the Gleaner offices, over Hemple's. Old Hump was hard at it.
He went up there.
3
Humphrey was sitting there, chin on chest, long legs stretched under the desk. He didn't look up; only a slight start and a movement of one hand indicated that he heard.
Henry stood, confused, a thought alarmed, looking at him; moved aimlessly to his own desk and stirred papers about; came, finally, and sat on a corner of the exchange table, tapping his cane nervously against his knee.
'Aren't going to stay here all night, are you, Hump?' he asked, rather huskily.
Humphrey's hand moved again; he didn't speak.