It seemed to Henry that he ought to take the situation in hand. As regarded his relations with Humphrey he was sailing under false colours. Among his confused thoughts he sought, gropingly, a way out. The speech he did make was clumsy.
'I don't know whether I could make him come. He likes to read evenings, or work in his shop.'
Mrs Henderson took this in, then let her eyes rest a moment, thoughtfully, on Henry's ingenuous countenance. An intent look crept into her eyes.
'Do you mean that you two sweep and make beds and wash dishes and dust?'
'Well'—Henry's voice faltered—'you see, I haven't been—I just moved over there yesterday afternoon.'
'Hm!' There was a bright, flash in Mrs Henderson's eyes. She chuckled abruptly. It was a sharp little chuckle that had the force of an interruption. 'I'd like to see the corners of those rooms. There ought to be some woman that could take care of you.' She turned again on Henry. 'Be sure and bring him down to-morrow. Come in about six for a picnic supper. Or no—let me think——'
Henry's eyes were on Corinne. She was eating now, composedly, like an accomplished feminine fatalist, leaving the disposition of matters to her more aggressive hostess. The food he had eaten rested comfortably on his long ill-treated but still responsive young stomach. His nervous concern of the morning was giving place to a glow of snug inner well-being. Ice-cream was before him now, a heaping plate of it—vanilla, with hot chocolate sauce—and a huge slice of chocolate layer cake. He blessed Mrs Henderson for the rich cream as he let heaping spoonfuls slip down his throat and followed them with healthy bites of the cake. What a jolly little woman she was. No fuss.
Nothing stuck up about her. And he knew she was on his side.
She had sympathy. Even if she hadn't yet heard—when she did hear—it wouldn't matter. She would be on his side; he was sure of it.
Corinne's hair, a loose curl of it, curved down over her ear and part of her cheek. She reached up a long hand and brushed it back. The motion thrilled him. He was quiveringly responsive to the faint down on her cheek, to the slight ebbing and flowing of the colour under her skin, to the whiteness of her temple, the curve of her rather heavy eyebrow, even to the 'waist' she wore—a simple garment, with an open throat and a wide collar that suggested the sea.