Between Humphrey and himself a gulf had opened. It was growing wider every minute. Nothing he could say would help; words were no good. He was afraid he might try to talk. It would be like him; floods of talk, meaningless, mere words, really mere nerves. He clamped his lips on that fear.
If I understand Henry, the thing that had brought him to despair--and he was in despair--was neither the sorry condition of the business, nor the trouble with Cicely. These had confused and saddened him. But the hopelessness had come after he saw Humphrey's face and eyes and caught that cool note in his voice. To the day of his death Henry couldn't endure hostility in those close about him. He had to have friendly sympathy, an easy give and take of the spirit in which his _naïveté_ would not be misunderstood. This sort of atmosphere provided, apparently, the only soil in which his faculties could take root and grow. Hostility in those he had been led to trust disarmed him, crushed him.
'Hump,' he ventured now, weakly, 'I think--maybe--you'd better show me those figures. I--I'll try to understand 'em. I will.'
Humphrey gave a little snort; brushed the idea away with a sweep of a long hand.
'No use!' he said brusquely. He rolled down the desktop and locked it with a snap. 'Getting stale myself. Sleep on it. Not a thing you can do, Hen!' He knocked the ashes from his pipe, gloomily. Buttoned his vest. Suddenly he broke out with this:--
Henry started; glanced up; fumbled at his moustache. 'You're wondering why I said that. But, man, you're a genius--Yes, you are! I have to plug for it. But you've got the flare. You know well enough what's loaded all this circulation on us. Your stories! Not a thing else. You'll do more of 'em. You'll be famous.'
'Oh, no, Hump I You don't know how I've----'
'Yes, you'll be famous. I won't. It's a gift--fame, success. It's a sort of edge God--or something--puts on a man. A cutting edge. You've simply got it. I simply haven't.'
Henry pulled and pulled at his moustache.
'And you've got a girl--a lovely girl. She's mad about you--oh, yes she is! I know. I've seen her look at you.'
'But, Hump, you don't just know what----'
'She doesn't have to hide her feelings. Not seriously, not with a lying smile. And you don't have to hide yours. You haven't got this furtive rope around your neck, strangling the breath of decent morality out of your soul. Thank God you don't know what it means--that struggle. She'll be announcing her engagement one of these days.