'But the greatest thing of all is that you're twenty. Think of it! Twenty!... Hen, when I was twenty I put my life on a schedule for five years. They were up last month.
'I was to be flying at twenty-four. Think of it—flying! Through the air, man! Like a gull! At twenty-five I was to be famous and rich. A conqueror! I slaved for that. Worked days and nights and Sundays for that. Sweated for the Old Man there on the Voice; put up with his stupid little insults.'
He sprang up; got into his coat; looked at his watch.
'I'm late. Got to stop at the rooms too. Mildred'll be wondering. You can stay here if you like.'
But Henry clung to him. Around the back street they went. And Humphrey talked on.
'Well, I'm twenty-five! And where've I got? I love a woman. Hen, I hope you'll never be torn as I'm torn now. You think you've been through things. Why, you're an innocent babe. I've got a woman's name—and that's a woman's life, Hen!—in my hands. It's a muddle. Maybe there's tragedy in it. May never work out. Sometimes I feel as if we were going straight over a precipice, she and I. It goes dark. It suffocates me.... It's costing me everything. It'll take money—a lot of it—money I haven't got. If the paper goes, my last hopes go with it. If we can't turn that corner. Everything comes down bang. No use.'
Henry tried to say, 'Oh, I guess we'll turn our corner all right;' but if the words passed his lips at all it was only as a whisper.
They were a hundred feet from the alley back of Parmenter's. It was dark now, there in the shade of the double row of maples. Humphrey stopped short; pressed his hands to his eyes; then looked at Henry.
'You coming to the rooms, too?' he asked.
Henry nodded.