'He won't eat,' she explained. 'He's still at it. I wish you could see my room. It's a sight.'
'Corinne coming down?'
'Not she. She won't budge from the stairs. And she flared up when I suggested bringing up a tray. I never thought that Corinne was romantic, but... Well, it gives us a nice little téte-à-tête supper. I've made iced coffee, Humphrey. Just dip into the salad, won't you!' After supper they went out to the hall. Corinne, still on the top step, had switched on the light and was sorting out a pile of loose sheets. She beckoned to them. They came tiptoeing up the stairs.
'I can't make it out,' she whispered. 'It isn't poetry. And he doesn't number his pages.'
'How did you ever get them?' asked Mildred.
'Went in and gathered them up. He didn't hear me. He's still at it.'
Humphrey reached for the sheets; held them to the light; read bits of this sheet and that; found a few that went together and read them in order; finally turned a wrinkled astonished face to the two young women.
'What is it?' they asked.
He chuckled softly. 'Well, it isn't poetry.'
'I saw that much,' Corinne murmured, rather mournfully. 'It's—wait a minute! I couldn't believe it at first. It—no—yes, that's what it is.'