'Henry! What is it?'
Henry stood mournfully staring at her. Finally in the manner of one who has committed a speech to memory, he said this:—
'Cicely, I asked you this afternoon if we couldn't have an “understanding.” You know! It seemed fair to me, if—if—if you, well, cared—because I had three thousand dollars, and all that.'
She made a rather impatient little gesture. He saw her hands move; but pressed on:—
'Since then everything has changed. I have no right to ask you now.'
There was a long silence. As on other occasions, in moments of grave emergency, Henry had recourse to words.
'There was trouble at the office. I couldn't leave Hump to carry all the burden alone. And I was being sued for libel. My stories... So I've had to make a very quick turn'—he had heard that term used by real business men; it sounded rather well, he felt; it had come to him on the train—'I've had to make a very quick turn—use every cent, or most every cent, of the money. Of course, without any money at all—while I might have some chance as a writer—still—well, I have no right to ask such a thing of you, and I—I withdraw it. I feel that I—I can't do less than that.' Then, after another silence, Henry swayed, caught at the railing, sank miserably to the steps.
'It's all right,' he heard himself saying. 'I just thought—everything's been in such a mid rush—I didn't have my supper. I'll be all right...'
'Henry,' he heard her saying now, in what seemed to him, as he reflected on it later that night, at his room, in bed, an extraordinarily matter-of-fact voice; girls were complicated creatures—'Henry, you must be starved to death. You come right in with me.'
He followed her in through the great hall, the unlighted living-room, a dark passage where she found his hand and led him along, a huge place that must have been the kitchen, and then an unmistakable pantry.