'A poem! But----'
'It's really quite wonderful. Now don't you go and throw cold water on
it, Humphrey.' She came over, very trim and pretty in her long apron,
her face flushed with the heat of the stove, slipped her hand through
his arm, and looked up at him. 'It's really very exciting. I haven't
seen the boy act this way for two years. He came in here, all out of
breath, and said he had to write. He didn't seem to know what. He's
quite wild I never in my life saw such concentration. It seems that he's
promised Corinne a poem.'
'Wonder what's got into him,' Humphrey mused.
Mildred returned to her salad dressing. 'Genius has got into him,' she
said, a bright little snap in her eyes. 'And it's coming out. He's been
up there nearly two hours now. Corinne's guarding. She'd kill you if you
disturbed him. She peeked in a little while ago. She says there's a lot
of it--all over the floor--and he was writing like mad. She couldn't see
any of it. As soon as he saw her he yelled at her and waved her out.'
'Hm!' said Humphrey.
'Humphrey, my dear,' said Mildred then, 'I'm really afraid we've got to
watch those two a little. Something's been happening to-day. Corinne has
gone perfectly mad over him--to-day--all of a sudden. She fretted every
minute he was away. Henry doesn't know it, but Corinne is a pretty
self-willed girl. And just now she's got her mind on him.'
She came over again, took his arm, and looked up at Humphrey. She was at
once sophisticating and confiding. There was a touch of something that,
might have been tenderness, even wistfulness, in her voice as about her
eyes.
'I've really been worrying a little about them. About Henry
particularly, for some reason.' She gave a soft little laugh, and
pressed his arm. 'They're so young, Humphrey--such green little things.
Or he is, at least. I've been impatient for you to come.'
'I got down as soon as I could,' said Humphrey, looking down at her.
'Of course, I know.'
'I've been worrying about him, too.'
When the supper was ready, Mildred made Humphrey sit at the table and
herself tiptoed up the stairs.
She came back, still on tiptoe, smiling as if at her own thoughts.
'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.