He felt Humphrey's eyes on him, and said 'Goodmorning!' stiffly, without looking round. He looked through the papers on the table for he knew not what; snatched at a heap of copy paper, bit his pencil and made a business of writing nothing whatever.
At eleven Mr Boice, who was also postmaster, lumbered out and along Simpson Street toward the post office. Henry, discovering himself alone with Humphrey, rushed, muttering, to the press room and engaged Jim Smith, the foreman, in talk which apparently made it necessary for that blonde little man, whose bare forearms were elaborately tattooed and who chewed tobacco, to come in, sit on Henry's table, and talk further.
Noon came.
Humphrey pushed back his chair, tapped on the edge of his desk, and thoughtfully wrinkled his long face. The natural thing was for Henry to come along with him for lunch at Stanley's. He didn't mind for himself. It was quite as pleasant to eat alone. In the present circumstances, more pleasant. It was awkward.
He got up; stood a moment.
He could feel the boy there, bending over proofs of the programmes for the Commencement 'recital' of the Music School, pencil poised, motionless, almost inert.
Suddenly Henry muttered again, sprang up, rushed to the press room, proof in hand; and Humphrey went to lunch alone.
Henry did not appear again at the office. This was not unusual. Monday was a slack day, and much of Henry's work consisted in scouting along Simpson Street, looking up new real estate permits at the village office, new volumes at the library and other small matters.
The unusual thing was the note on Humphrey's desk. Henry had put it on top of his papers and weighted it down conspicuously with the red ink bottle.
'I've had to ask Mrs Henderson and Corinne Doag to the rooms to-night for a little party. I'll bring them about eight.' Pinned to the paper was a five-dollar banknote.