There was a rumor about town that Henderson was a good deal extended.  It alarmed a hundred people, not on Henderson’s account, but their own.  When one of them consulted Uncle Jerry, that veteran smiled.

“Oh, I guess Henderson’s all right.  But I wouldn’t wonder if it meant a squeeze.  Of course if he’s extended, it’s an excuse for settling up, and the shorts will squeal.  I’ve seen Henderson extended a good many times,” and the old man laughed.  “Don’t you worry about him.”

This opinion, when reported, did not seem to quiet Jack’s fears, who saw his own little venture at the mercy of a sweeping Street game.  It occurred to him that he possibly might get a little light on the matter by dropping in that afternoon and taking a quiet cup of tea with Mrs. Henderson.

He found her in the library.  Outdoors winter was slouching into spring with a cold drizzle, with a coating of ice on the pavements-animating weather for the medical profession.  Within, there was the glow of warmth and color that Carmen liked to create for herself.  In an entrancing tea-gown, she sat by a hickory fire, with a fresh magazine in one hand and a big paper-cutter in the other.  She rose at Jack’s entrance, and, extending her hand, greeted him with a most cordial smile.  It was so good of him!  She was so lonesome!  He could himself see that the lonesomeness was dissipated, as she seated him in a comfortable chair by the fire, and then stood a moment looking at him, as if studying his comfort.  She was such a domestic woman!

“You look tired, monsieur,” she said, as she passed behind his chair and rested the tip of her forefinger for a second on his head.  “I shall make you a cup of tea at once.”

“Not tired, but bothered,” said Jack, stretching out his legs.

“I know,” she replied; “it’s a bothering world.”  She was still behind him, and spoke low, but with sympathy.  “I remember, it’s only one lump.”

He could feel her presence, so womanly and friendly.  “I don’t care what people say,” he was thinking, “she’s a good-hearted little thing, and understands men.”  He felt that he could tell her anything, almost anything that he could tell a man.  She was sympathetic and not squeamish.

“There,” she said, handing him the tea and looking down on him.

The cup was dainty, the fragrance of the tea delicious, the woman exquisite.

“I’m better already,” said Jack, with a laugh.

She made a cup for herself, handed him the cigarettes, lit one for herself, and sat on a low stool not far from him.

“Now what is it?”

“Oh, nothing—­a little business worry.  Have you heard any Street rumor?”

“Rumor?” she repeated, with a little start.  And then, leaning forward, “Do you mean that about Mr. Henderson in the morning papers?”

“Yes.”

Carmen, relieved, gave a liquid little laugh, and then said, with a change to earnestness:  “I’m going to trust you, my friend.  Henderson put it in himself!  He told me so this morning when I asked him about it.  This is just between ourselves.”