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diff --git a/old/51985-8.txt b/old/51985-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 12a1055..0000000 --- a/old/51985-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11531 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Trufflers, by Samuel Merwin - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: The Trufflers - A Story - -Author: Samuel Merwin - -Illustrator: Frank Snapp - -Release Date: May 3, 2016 [EBook #51985] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRUFFLERS *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - - - -THE TRUFFLERS - -A Story - -By Samuel Merwin - -Author of Anthony the Absolute, The Charmed Life of Miss Austin, The -Honey Bee, etc. - -Illustrated by Frank Snapp - -Indianapolis Bobbs-Merrill Company Publishers - -1916 - -[Illustration: 0001] - -[Illustration: 0008] - -[Illustration: 0009] - -THE TRUFFLERS - - - - -CHAPTER I--THE GIRL IN THE PLAID COAT - - -|PETER ERICSON MANN leaned back in his chair and let his hands fall -listlessly from the typewriter to his lap. - -He raised them again and laboriously pecked out a few words. - -It was no use. - -He got up, walked to one of the front windows of the dingy old studio -and peered gloomily out at the bare trees and brown grass patches of -Washington Square. - -Peter was a playwright of three early (and partial) successes, and two -more recent failures. He was thirty-three years old; and a typical -New Yorker, born in Iowa, he dressed conspicuously, well, making it a -principle when in funds to stock up against lean seasons to come. He -worried a good deal and kept his savings of nearly six thousand dollars -(to the existence of which sum he never by any chance alluded) in five -different savings banks. He wore large horn-rimmed eyeglasses (not -spectacles) with a heavy black ribbon attached, and took his Art almost -as seriously as himself. You know him publicly as Eric Mann. - -For six months Peter had been writing words where ideas were -imperatively demanded. Lately he had torn up the last of these words. -He had waited in vain for the divine uprush; there had come no tingle -of delighted nerves, no humming vitality, no punch. And as for his -big scene, in Act III, it was a morass of sodden, tangled, dramatic -concepts. - -His theme this year was the modern bachelor girl; but to save his life -he couldn't present her convincingly as a character in a play--perhaps -because these advanced, outspoken young women irritated him too deeply -to permit of close observation. Really, they frightened him. He believed -in marriage, the old-fashioned woman, the home. - -It had reached the point, a month back, where he could no longer even -react to stimulants. He had revived an old affair with a pretty manicure -girl without stirring so much as a flutter of excitement within himself. -This was Maria Tonifetti, of the sanitary barber shop of Marius in the -basement of the Parisian Restaurant. He had tried getting drunk; which -made him ill and induced new depths of melancholy. - -No one ever saw his name any more. No one, he felt certain, ever would -see it. He could look back now on the few years of his success in a -spirit of awful calm. He felt that he had had genius. But the genius had -burned out. All that remained to him was to live for a year or two -(or three) watching that total of nearly six thousand dollars -shrink---shrink---and then the end of everything. Well, he would not be -the first.... - -One faint faded joy had lately been left to Peter, one sorry reminder -of the days when the magical words, the strangely hypnotic words, "Eric -Mann," had spoken, sung, shouted from half the bill-boards in town. Over -beyond Sixth Avenue, hardly five minutes' walk through the odd tangle -of wandering streets, the tenements and ancient landmarks and subway -excavations and little triangular breathing places that make up -the Greenwich Village of to-day, there had lingered one faded, torn -twenty-four-sheet poster, advertising "The Buzzard, by Eric Mann." - -When he was bluest lately, Peter had occasionally walked over there and -stood for a while gazing at this lingering vestige of his name. - -He went over there now, in soft hat and light overcoat, and carrying his -heavy cane--hurried over there, in fact--across the Square and on under -the Sixth Avenue elevated into that quaint section of the great city -which socialists, anarchists, feminists, Freudian psycho-analysts of -self, magazine writers, Jewish intellectuals, sculptors and painters -of all nationalities and grades, sex hygiene enthusiasts, theatrical -press-agents and various sorts of youthful experimenters in living share -with the merely poor. - -He stopped at a familiar spot on the curb by a familiar battered -lamp-post and peered across the street. - -Then he started--and stared. Surprise ran into bewilderment, bewilderment -into utter dejection. - -The faded, torn twenty-four-sheet poster had vanished. - -A new brand of cut plug tobacco was advertised there now. - -Ragged children of the merely poor, cluttering pavement and sidewalk, -fell against him in their play. Irritably he brushed them aside. - -It was indeed the end. - -A young woman was crossing the street toward him, nimbly dodging behind -a push cart and in front of a coal truck. Deep in self, he lowered his -gaze and watched her. So intent was his stare that the girl stopped -short, one foot on the curb, slowly lowered the apple she was eating, -and looked straight at him. - -She was shaped like a boy, he decided--good shoulders, no hips, fine -hands (she wore no gloves, though the March air was crisp) and trim feet -in small, fiat-heeled tan boots. Her hair, he thought, was cut short. He -was not certain, for her "artistic" tarn o'shanter covered it and hung -low on her neck behind. He moved a step to one side and looked more -closely. Yes, it was short. Not docked, in the current fashion, but cut -close to her head, like a boy's. - -She stepped up on the curb now and confronted him. He noted that her -suit was of brown stuff, loosely and comfortably cut; and that the -boyish outer coat, which she wore swinging open, was of a rough plaid. -Then he became aware of her eyes. They were deep green and vivid. Her -skin was a clear olive, prettily tinted by air and exercise... Peter -suddenly knew that he was turning red. - -She spoke first. - -"Hadn't we better say something?" was her remark. Then she took another -bite of the apple, and munched it with honest relish. - -"Very likely we would better," he managed to reply--rather severely, for -the "had better" phrase always annoyed him. - -"It seems as if I must have met you somewhere," he ventured next. - -"No, we haven't met." - -"My name is Mann." - -"Yes," said she, "I know it." - -"Then suppose you tell me yours?" - -"Why?" - -Peter could not think of a reason why. Deeply as he was supposed to -understand women, here was a new variety. She was inclined neither to -flirt nor to run away. - -"How is it that you know who I am?" he asked, sparring for time.. - -She gave a careless shrug. "Oh, most every one is known, here in the -Village." - -Peter was always at his best when recognized as _the_ Eric Mann. His -spirits rose a bit. - -"Might I suggest that we have a cup of tea somewhere?" - -She knit her brows. "Yes," she replied slowly, even doubtfully, "you -might." - -"Of course, if you--" - -"Jim's isn't far. Let's go there." - -Jim's was an oyster and chop emporium of ancient fame in the Village. -They sat at a rear table. The place was empty save for an old waiter -who shuffled through the sprinkling of sawdust on the floor, and a fat -grandson of the original Jim who stood by the open grill that was set in -the wall at the rear end of the oyster bar. - -Over the tea Peter said, expanding now--"Perhaps this is reason enough -for you to tell me who you are." - -"Perhaps what is?" - -He smilingly passed the toast. - -She took a slice, and considered it. - -"You see," he went on, "if I am not to know, how on earth am I to manage -seeing you again?" - -She slowly inclined her head. "That's just it." - -It was Peter's turn to knit his brow's. - -"How can I be sure that I want you to see me again?" - -He waved an exasperated hand. "Then why are we here?" - -"To find out." - -At least he could smoke. He opened his cigarette case. Then, though he -never felt right about women smoking, he extended it toward her. - -"Thanks," said she, taking one and casually lighting it. Yes, she _had_ -fine hands. And he had noted when she took off her coat and reached -up to hang it on the wall rack, her youth-like suppleness of body. A -provocative person! - -"I've seen some of your plays," she observed, elbows on table, chin on -hand, gazing at the smoke-wraiths of her cigarette. "Two or three. _Odd -Change_ and _Anchored_ and--what was it called?" - -"_The Buzzard?_" - -"Yes, _The Buzzard_. They were dreadful." - -The color slowly left Peter's face. The girl was speaking without the -slightest self-consciousness or wish to offend. She meant it. - -Peter managed to recover some part of his poise. - -"Well!" he said. Then: "If they were all dreadful, why didn't you stop -after the first?" - -"Oh."--she waved her cigarette--"_Odd Change_ came to town when I was in -college, and--" - -"So you're a college girl?" - -"Yes, and a crowd of us went. That one wasn't so bad as the others. You -know your tricks well enough--especially in comedy, carpentered comedy. -Theatrically, I suppose you're really pretty good or your things -wouldn't succeed. It is when you try to deal with life--and with -women--that you're...." Words failed her. She smoked in silence. - -"I'm what?" he ventured. "The limit?" - -"Yes," she replied, very thoughtful. "Since you've said it." - -"All right," he cried, aiming at a gay humor and missing heavily--"but -now, having slapped me in the face and thrown me out in the snow, don't -you think that you'd better--" He hesitated, watching for a smile that -failed to make its appearance. "That I'd better what?" - -"Well--tell me a little more?" - -"I was wondering if I could. The difficulty is, it's the whole -thing--your attitude toward life--the perfectly conventional, perfectly -unimaginative home and mother stuff, your hopeless sentimentality about -women, the slushy, horrible, immoral Broadway falseness that lies back -of everything you do--the Broadway thing, always. Ever, in your comedy, -good as that sometimes is. Your insight into life is just about that of -a hardened director of one-reel films. What I've been wondering since we -met this afternoon--you see, I didn't know that we were going to meet in -this way... - -"Naturally." - -"... is whether it would be any use to try and help you. You have -ability enough." - -"Thanks for that!" - -"Don't let's trifle! You see, if it is any use at all to try to get a -little--just a little--truth into the American theater, why, those of us -that believe in truth owe it to our faith to get to work on the men that -supply the plays." - -"Doubtless." Peter's mind was racing in a dozen directions at once. This -extraordinary young person had hit close; that much he knew. He wondered -rather helplessly whether the shattered and scattered remnants of his -self-esteem could ever be put together again so the cracks wouldn't -show. - -The confusing thing was that he couldn't, at the moment, feel angry -toward the girl; she was too odd and too pretty. Already he was -conscious of a considerable emotional stir, caused by her mere presence -there across the table. She reached out now for another cigarette. - -"I think," said he gloomily, "that you'd better tell me your name." - -She shook her head. "I'll tell you how you can find me out." - -"How?" - -"You would have to take a little trouble." - -"Glad to." - -"Come to the Crossroads Theater to-night, in Tenth Street." - -"Oh---that little place of Zanin's." - -She nodded. "That little place of Zanin's." - -"I've never been there." - -"I know you haven't. None of the people that might be helped by it ever -come. You see, we aren't professional, artificialized actors. We are -just trying to deal naturally with bits of real life--from the Russian, -and things that are written here in the Village. Jacob Zanin is a big -man--a fine natural man--with a touch of genius, I think." - -Peter was silent. He knew this brilliant, hulking Russian Jew, and -disliked him: even feared him in a way, as he feared others of his race -with what he felt to be their hard clear minds, their vehement idealism, -their insistent pushing upward. The play that had triumphantly displaced -his last failure at the Astoria Theater was written by a Russian Jew. - -She added: "In some ways it is the only interesting theater in New -York." - -"There is so much to see." - -"I know," she sighed. "And we don't play every night, of course. Only -Friday and Saturday." - -He was regarding her now with kindling interest. "What do you do there?" - -"Oh, nothing much. I'm playing a boy this month in Zanin's one-act -piece, _Any Street_. And sometimes I dance. I was on my way there when I -met you--was due at three o'clock." - -"For a rehearsal, I suppose." - -She nodded. - -"You won't make it. It's four-fifteen now." - -"I know it." - -"You're playing a boy," he mused. "I wonder if that is why you cut off -your hair." He felt brutally daring in saying this. He had never been -direct with women or with direct women. But this girl created her own -atmosphere which quite enveloped him. - -"Yes," said she simply, "I had to for the part." Never would he have -believed that the attractive woman lived who would do that! - -Abruptly, as if acting on an impulse, she pushed back her chair. "I'm -going," she remarked; adding; "You'll find you have friends who know -me." - -She was getting into her coat now. He hurried awkwardly around the -table, and helped her. - -"Tell me," said he, suddenly all questions, now that he was losing -her--"You live here in the Village, I take it?" - -"Yes." - -"Alone?" - -She nearly smiled. "No, with another girl." - -"Do I know her?" - -She pursed her lips. "I doubt it." A moment more of hesitation, then: -"Her name is Deane, Betty Deane." - -"I've heard that name. Yes, I've seen her--at the Black and White ball -this winter! A blonde--pretty--went as a Picabia dancer." - -They were mounting the steps to the sidewalk (for Jim's is a basement). - -"Good-by," said she. "Will you come--to-night or to-morrow?" - -"Yes," said he. "To-night." And walked in a daze back to the rooms on -Washington Square. - - - - -CHAPTER II--THE SEVENTH-STORY MEN - -|NOT until he was crossing Sixth Avenue, under the elevated road, did it -occur to him that she had deliberately broken her rehearsal appointment -to have tea with him and then as deliberately, had left him for the -rehearsal. He had interested her; then, all at once, he had ceased to -interest her. It was not the first time Peter had had this experience -with women, though none of the others had been so frank about it. - -Frank, she certainly was! - -Resentments rose. Why on earth had he sat there so meekly and let her go -on like that--he, the more or less well-known Eric Mann! Had he no force -of character at all? No dignity? - -Suppose she had to write plays to suit the whims of penny-splitting -Broadway managers who had never heard of Andreyev and Tchekov, were -bored by Shaw and Shakespeare and thought an optimist was an eye -doctor--where would _she_ get off! - -During the short block between Sixth Avenue and the Square, anger -conquered depression. When he entered the old brick apartment building -he was muttering. When he left the elevator and walked along the dark -corridor to the rooms he was considering reprisals. - -Peter shared the dim old seventh-floor apartment with two fellow -bachelors, Henry Sidenham Lowe and the Worm. The three were sometimes -known as the Seventh-Story Men. The phrase was Hy Lowe's and referred -to the newspaper stories of that absurd kidnaping escapade--the Esther -MacLeod case, it was--back in 1913. The three were a bit younger then. - -Hy Lowe was a slim young man with small features that appeared to be -gathered in the middle of his face. His job might have been thought -odd anywhere save in the Greenwich Village region. After some years -of newspaper work he had settled down to the managing editorship of -a missionary weekly known as _My Brother's Keeper_. Hy was -uncommunicative, even irreverent regarding his means of livelihood, -usually referring to the paper as his meal ticket, and to his employer, -the Reverend Doctor Hubbell Harkness Wilde (if at all) as the Walrus. In -leisure moments, perhaps as a chronic reaction from the moral strain of -his job, Hy affected slang, musical comedy and girls. The partly skinned -old upright piano in the studio was his. And he had a small gift at -juggling plates. - -The Worm was a philosopher; about Peter's age, sandy in coloring but -mild in nature, reflective to the point of self-effacement. He read -interminably, in more than one foreign language and was supposed to -write book reviews. He had lived in odd corners of the earth and knew -Gorki personally. His name was Henry Bates. - -Peter came slowly into the studio, threw off coat and hat and stood, the -beginnings of a complacent smile on his face. - -"I've got my girl," he announced. - -"Now that you've got her, what you gonna do with her?" queried Hy Lowe, -without turning from the new song hit he was picking out on the piano. - -"What am I gonna do with her?" mused Peter, hands deep in pockets, more -and more pleased with his new attitude of mind--"I'm gonna vivisect her, -of course." - -"Ah, cruel one!" hummed Hy. - -"Well, why not!" cried Peter, rousing. "If a girl leaves her home -and strikes out for the self-expression thing, doesn't she forfeit the -consideration of decent people? Isn't she fair game?" - -Over in the corner by a window, his attention caught by this outbreak, -the Worm looked up at Peter and reflected for a moment. He was deep in -a Morris chair, the Worm, clad only in striped pajamas that were not -over-equipped with buttons, and one slipper of Chinese straw that -dangled from an elevated foot. - -"Hey, Pete--get this!" cried Hy, and burst into song. - -Peter leaned over his shoulder and sang the choppy refrain with him. -In the interest of accuracy the two sang it again, The third rendition -brought them to the borders of harmony. - -The Worm looked up again and studied Peter's back, rather absently as if -puzzling him out and classifying him. He knit his brows. Then his eyes -lighted, and he turned back in his book, fingering the pages with a mild -eagerness. Finding what he sought, he read thoughtfully and smiled. He -closed his book; hitched forward to the old flat-top desk that stood -between the windows; lighted a caked brier pipe; and after considerable -scribbling on scraps of paper appeared to hit upon an arrangement of -phrases that pleased him. These phrases he printed out painstakingly on -the back of a calling card which he tacked up (with a hair-brush) on -the outer side of the apartment door. Then he went into the bedroom to -dress. - -"Who is she?" asked Hy in a low voice. The two were fond of the Worm, -but they never talked with him about their girls. - -"That's the interesting thing," said Peter. "I don't know. She's plumb -mysterious. All she'd tell was that she is playing a boy at that little -Crossroads Theater of Zanin's, and that I'd have to go there to find her -out. Going to-night. Want to come along?" - -"What kind of a looking girl?" - -"Oh--pretty. Extraordinary eyes, green with brown in 'em--but green. And -built like a boy. Very graceful." - -"Hm!" mused Hy. - -"Do you know her?" - -"Sounds like Sue Wilde." - -"Not--" - -"Yes, the Walrus's child." - -"What's _she_ doing, playing around the Village?" - -"Oh, that's an old story. She left home--walked right out. Calls herself -modern. She's the original lady highbrow, if you ask me. Sure I'll go to -see her. Even if she never could see me." - -Later, Hy remarked: "The old boy asked me yesterday if I had her -address. You see he knows we live down here where the Village crowds -circulate." - -"Give it to him?" - -"No. Easy enough to get, of course, but I ducked... I'm going to hop -into the bathtub. There's time enough. Then we can eat at the Parisian." - -Peter settled down to read the sporting page of the evening paper. -Shortly the Worm, clad now, drifted back to the Morris chair. - -They heard Hy shuffle out in his bath slippers and close the outer -door after him. Then he opened the door and came back, He stood in the -doorway, holding his bathrobe together with one hand and swinging his -towel with the ether; and chuckling. - -"You worm!" he observed. "Why Bolbo _cee_ras?" - -The Worm looked up with mild eyes. "Not bolboceeras," he corrected. - -"Bolbo_es_eras. As in cow." - -"But why?" - -The Worm merely shrugged his shoulders and resumed his book. - -Peter paid little heed to this brief conversation. And when he and Hy -went out, half an hour later, he gave only a passing glance to the card -on the door. He was occupied with thoughts of a slim girl with green -eyes who had fascinated and angered him in a most confusing way. - -The card read as follows: - -DO NOT FEED OR ANNOY! - -BOLBOCERAS AMERICANUS MULS - -HABITAT HERE! - - - - -CHAPTER III--JACOB ZANIN - -|THE Crossroads Theater was nothing more than an old store, with a -shallow stage built in at the rear and a rough foyer boarded off at the -front. The seats were rows of undertaker's chairs, But the lighting -was managed with some skill; and the scenery, built and painted in the -neighborhood, bordered on a Barker-Craig-Reinhardt effectiveness. - -Peter and Hy stood for a little time in the foyer, watching the audience -come in. It was a distinctly youthful audience--the girls and women were -attractive, most of them Americans; the men running more foreign, with -a good many Russian Jews among them. They all appeared to be -great friends. And they handled one another a good deal. Peter, -self-conscious, hunting copy as always, saw one tired-looking young -Jewish painter catch the hand of a pretty girl--an extraordinarily -pretty girl, blonde, of a slimly rounded figure--and press and caress -her fingers as he chatted casually with a group. - -After a moment the girl drew her hand away gently, half-apologetically, -while a faint wave of color flowed to her transparent cheek. - -All Peter's blind race prejudice flamed into a little fire of rage. Here -it was--his subject--the restless American girl experimenting with life, -the selfish bachelor girl, deep in the tangles of Bohemia, surrounded by -just the experimental men that would be drawn to the district by such as -she.... - -So Peter read it. And he was tom by confused clashing emotions. Then he -heard a fresh voice cry: "Why, hello, Betty!" Then he remembered--this -girl was the Picabia dancer--Betty Deane--her friend! There was color in -his own face now, and his pulse was leaping. - -"Come," he said shortly to Hy, "let's find our seats." - -The first playlet on the bill was Zanin's _Any Street._ - -The theme was the grim influence of street life on the mind of a child. -It was an uncomfortable little play. All curtains were drawn back. -Subjects were mentioned that should never, Peter felt, be even hinted at -in the presence of young women. Rough direct words were hurled at that -audience. - -Peter, blushing, peered about him. There sat the young women and girls -by the dozen, serene of face, frankly interested. - -Poor Hy, overcome by his tangled self-consciousness, actually lowered -his head and pressed his handkerchief to his fiery face, murmuring: -"This is no place for a minister's assistant!" And he added, in Peter's -ear: "Lord, if the Walrus could just see this--once!" - -Then a newsboy came running on the stage--slim, light of foot--dodged -cowering in a saloon doorway, and swore at an off-stage policeman from -whose clutches he had escaped. - -There was a swift pattering of applause; and a whisper ran through the -audience. Peter heard one voice say: "There she is--that's Sue!" - -He sat erect, on the edge of his chair. Again the hot color surged into -his face. He felt it there and was confused. - -It was his girl of the apple, in old coat and knickerbockers, tom -stockings, torn shirt open at the neck, a ragged felt hat over her short -hair. - -Peter felt his resentment fading. He knew as he watched her move about -the stage that she had the curious electric quality that is called -personality. It was in her face and the poise of her head, in the lines -of her body, in every easy movement. She had a great gift.. - -After this play the two went outside to smoke, very silent, suppressed -even. Neither knew what to think or what to say. - -There Zanin found them (for Peter was, after all, a bit of a personage) -and made them his guests. - -Thus it was that Peter found himself behind the scenes, meeting -the youthful, preoccupied members of the company and watching with -half-suppressed eagerness the narrow stairway by which Sue Wilde must -sooner or later mount from the region of dressing-rooms below. - -Finally, just before the curtain was rung up on the second play, he was -rewarded by the appearance of Betty Deane, followed by the tam o'shanter -and the plaid coat of his apple girl. - -He wondered if her heart was jumping as his was. - -Surely the electric thrill of this meeting, here among heaps of scenery -and properties, must have touched her, too. He could not believe that -it began and ended with himself. There was magic in the occasion, such -magic as an individual rarely generates alone. But if it touched her, -she gave no outward sign. To Zanin's casual, "Oh, you know each other," -she responded with a quite matter-of-fact smile and nod. - -They went out into the audience, and up an aisle to seats in the rear of -the hall--Betty first, then Sue and Peter, then Hy. - -Peter felt the thrill again in walking just behind her, aware through -his very nerve-rips of her grace and charm of movement. When he stood -aside to let her pass on to her seat her sleeve brushed his arm; and the -arm, his body, his brain, tingled and flamed. - -Zanin joined them after the last play and led them to a basement -restaurant near the Square. Hy paired off with Betty and made progress. -But then, Betty was evidently more Hy's sort than Sue was. - -In the restaurant, Peter, silent, gloomy, watched his chance for a word -aside with Sue. When it came, he said: "I'm very glad you told me to -come." - -"You liked it then?" - -"I liked you." - -This appeared to silence her. - -"You have distinction Your performance was really interesting." - -"I'm glad you think that." - -"In some ways you are the most gifted girl I have ever seen. Listen! I -must see you again." - -She smiled. - -"Let's have a bite together one of these evenings--at the Parisian or -Jim's. I want to talk with you." - -"That would be pleasant," said she, after a moment's hesitation. - -"To-morrow evening, perhaps?" Peter suggested. - -The question was not answered; for in some way the talk became general -just then. Later Peter was sure that Sue herself had a hand in making it -general. - -Zanin turned suddenly to Peter. He was a big young man, with a strong -if peasant-like face and a look of keenness about the eyes. There -was exuberant force in the man, over which his Village manner of -sophisticated casualness toward all things lay like the thinnest of -veneers. - -"Well," he said, "what do you think of Sue here?" - -Peter repeated his impressions with enthusiasm. - -"We're going to do big things with her," said Zanin. "Big things. You -wait. _Any Street_ is just a beginning." And then an impetuous eagerness -rushing up in him, his topic shifted from Sue to himself. With a -turbulent, passionate egotism he recounted his early difficulties in -America, his struggles with the language, heart-breaking summers as a -book agent, newspaper jobs in middle-western cities, theatrical press -work from Coast to Coast, his plunge into the battle for a higher -standard of theatrical art and the resulting fight, most desperate of -his life thus far, to attract attention to the Crossroads Theater and -widen its influence. - -Zarin was vehement now. Words poured in a torrent from his lips. He -talked straight at you, gesturing, with a light in his eye and veiled -power in his slightly husky voice. Peter felt this power, and something -not unlike a hatred of the man took sudden root within him. - -"You will think me foolish to give my strength to this struggle. Like -you, I know these Americans. You can tell me nothing about them. Oh, I -have seen them, lived with them--in the city, in the small village, on -the farm. I know that they are ignorant of Art, that they do not care." -He snapped his big fingers. "Vaudeville, baseball, the girl show, the -comic supplement, the moving picture--that is what they like! Yet year -after year, I go on fighting for the barest recognition. They do -not understand. They do not care. They believe in money, comfort, -conformity--above all conformity. They are fools. But I know them, I -tell you! And I know that they will listen to me yet! I have shown them -that I can fight for my ideals. Before we are through I shall show -them that I can beat them at their own game. They shall see that I mean -business. I shall show them their God Success in his full majesty.... -And publicity? They are children. When I have finished they---the best -of them---will come to me for kindergarten lessons in publicity. I'm -hoping to talk with you about it, Mann, I can interest you. I wouldn't -bring it to you unless I _knew_ I could interest you." - -He turned toward Sue. "And this girl shall help me. She has the talent, -the courage, the breeding. She will surprise the best of them. They will -find her pure gold." - -Hushed with his own enthusiasm, he dropped his hand over one of Sue's; -took hers up in both of his and moved her slender fingers about as he -might have played absently with a handkerchief or a curtain string. - -Hy, across the table, took this in; and noted too the swift, hot -expression that flitted across Peter's face and the sudden set to his -mouth. - -Sue, alter a moment, quietly withdrew her hand. But she did not flush, -as Betty had flushed in somewhat similar circumstances a few hours -earlier. - -Peter laid his hands on the table; pushed back his chair; and, lips -compressed, got up. - -"Oh," cried Zanin--"not going?" - -"I must," Peter replied, slowly, coldly. "I have work to do. It has been -very pleasant. Good night." - -And out he went. - -Hy, after some hesitation, followed. - -Peter did not speak until they were nearly across the Square. Then he -remembered-- - -"The Walrus asked you where she was, did he?" - -"He sure did." - -"Worried about her, I suppose!" - -"He's worried, all right." - -"Humph!" said Peter. - -He said nothing more. At the rooms, He partly undressed in silence. -Now and again his long face worked in mute expression of conflicting -emotions within. Suddenly he stopped undressing and went into the -studio (he slept in there, on the couch) and sat by the window, peering -out at the sights of the Square. - -Hy watched him curiously; then called out a good night, turned off -the gas and tumbled into bed. His final remark, the cheery -observation--"I'll tell you this much, my son. Friend Betty is some -pippin!" drew forth no response. - - - - -CHAPTER IV--A LITTLE JOURNEY IN PARANOIA - -|HALF an hour later Peter tiptoed over and closed the door. Then he sat -down at his typewriter, removed the paper he had left in it, put in a -new sheet and struck off a word. - -He sat still, then, in a sweat. The noise of the keys fell on his tense -ears like the crackling thunder of a machine gun. - -He took the paper out and tore it into minute pieces. - -He got another sheet, sat down at the desk and wrote a few hurried -sentences in longhand. - -He sealed it in an envelope, glancing nervously about the room; -addressed it; and found a stamp in the desk. - -Then he tiptoed down the room, softly opened the door and listened. - -Hy was snoring. - -He stole into the bedroom, found his clothes in the dark and -deliberately dressed, clear to overcoat and hat. He slipped out into the -corridor, rang for the elevator and went out across the Square to the -mail box. There was a box in the hall down-stairs; but he had found it -impossible to post that letter before the eyes of John, the night man. - -For a moment he stood motionless, one hand gripping the box, the other -holding the letter in air--a statue of a man. - -Then he saw a sauntering policeman, shivered, dropped the letter in and -almost ran home. - -Peter had done the one thing that he himself, twelve hours earlier, -would have regarded as utterly impossible. - -He had sent an anonymous letter. - -It was addressed to the Reverend Hubbell Harkness - -Wilde, Scripture House, New York. It conveyed to that vigorous if -pietistic gentleman the information that he would find his daughter, -on the following evening, Saturday, performing on the stage of the -Crossroads Theater, Tenth Street, near Fourth: with the added hint that -it might not, even yet be too late to save her. - -And Peter, all in a tremor now, knew that he meant to be at the -Crossroads Theater himself to see this little drama of surprises come -off. - -The fact developed when Hy came back from the office on Saturday that -he was meditating a return engagement with his new friend Betty. "The -subject was mentioned," he explained, rather self-consciously, to Peter. - -The Worm came in then and heard Hy speak of _Any Street_. - -"Oh," he observed, "that piece of Zanin's! I've meant to see it. You -fellows going to-night? I'll join you." - -So the three Seventh-Story Men ate at the Parisian and set forth for -their little adventure; Peter and Hy each with his own set of motives -locked up in his breast, the Worm with no motives in particular. - -Peter smoked a cigar; the Worm his pipe; and Hy, as always, a cigarette. -All carried sticks. - -Peter walked in the middle; his face rather drawn; peeking out ahead. - -Hy swung his stick; joked about this and that; offered an experimentally -humorous eye to every young woman that passed. - -The Worm wore the old gray suit that he could not remember to keep -pressed, soft black hat, flowing tie, no overcoat. A side pocket bulged -with a paper-covered book in the Russian tongue. He had an odd way of -walking, the Worm, throwing his right leg out and around and toeing in -with his right foot. - -As they neared the little theater, Peter's pulse beat a tattoo against -his temples. What if old Wilde hadn't received the letter! If he had, -would he come! If he came, what would happen? - -He came. - -Peter and the Worm were standing near the inner entrance, Waiting for -Hy, who, cigarette drooping from his nether lip, stood in the me at the -ticket window. - -Suddenly a man appeared--a stranger, from the casually curious glances -he drew--elbowing in through the group in the outer doorway and made -straight for the young poet who was taking tickets. - -Peter did not see him at first. Then the Worm nudged his elbow and -whispered--"Good God, it's the Walrus!" - -Peter wheeled about. He had met the man only once or twice, a year back; -now he took him in--a big man, heavy in the shoulders and neck, past -middle age, with a wide thin orator's mouth surrounded by deep lines. He -had a big hooked nose (a strong nose!) and striking vivid eyes of a pale -green color. They struck you, those eyes, with their light hard surface. -There were strips of whiskers on each cheek, narrow and close-clipped, -tinged with gray. His clothes, overcoat and hat were black; his collar a -low turnover; his tie a loosely knotted white bow. - -He made an oddly dramatic figure in that easy, merry Bohemian setting; a -specter from an old forgotten world of Puritanism. - -The intruder addressed the young poet at the door in a low but -determined voice. - -"I wish to see Miss Susan Wilde." - -"I'm afraid you can't now, sir. She will be in costume by this time." - -"In costume, eh?" Doctor Wilde was frowning. And the poet eyed him with -cool suspicion. - -"Yes, she is in the first play." - -Still the big man frowned and compressed that wide mobile mouth. Peter, -all alert., sniffing out the copy trail, noted that he was nervously -clasping his hands. - -Now Doctor Wilde spoke, with a sudden ring in his voice that gave a -fleeting hint of inner suppressions. "Will you kindly send word to Miss -Wilde that her father is here and must see her at once?" - -The poet, surprised, sent the message. - -Peter heard a door open, down by the stage. He pressed forward, peering -eagerly. A ripple of curiosity and friendly interest ran through that -part of the audience that was already seated. A young man called, -"What's your hurry, Sue?" and there was laughter. - -Then he saw her, coming lightly, swiftly up the side aisle; in the boy -costume--the knickerbockers, the torn stockings, the old coat and ragged -hat, the tom shirt, open at the neck. She seemed hardly to hear the -noise. Her lips were compressed, and Peter suddenly saw that she in her -fresh young way looked not unlike the big man at the door, the nervously -intent man who stood waiting for her with a scowl that wavered into an -expression of utter unbelief as his eyes took in her costume. - -Hy came up just then with the tickets, and Peter hurried in after Doctor -Wilde; then let Hy and the Worm move on without him to their seats, -lingering shamelessly. His little drama was on. He had announced that he -would vivisect this girl! - -He studied her. But she saw nothing but the big gray man there with the -deeply lined face and the pale eyes--her father! Peter noted now that -she had her make-up on; an odd effect around those deep blazing eyes. - -Then the two were talking--low, tense. Some late comers crowded in, -chatting and laughing. Peter edged closer. - -"But you shouldn't have come here like this," he heard her saying. "It -isn't fair!" - -"I am not here to argue. Once more, will you put on your proper clothes -and come home with me?" - -"No, I will not." - -"You have no shame then--appearing like this?" - -"No--none." - -"And the publicity means nothing to you?" - -"You are causing it by coming here." - -"It is nothing to you that your actions are a public scandal?" With -which he handed her a folded paper. - -She did not look at it; crumpled in in her hand. - -"You feel, then, no concern for the position you put me in?" - -Doctor Wilde was raising his voice. - -The girl broke out with--"Listen, father! I came out here to meet you -and stop this thing, settle it, once and for all. It is the best way. -I will not go with you. I have my own life to live, You must not try to -speak to me again!" - -She turned away, her eyes darkly alight in her printed face, her slim -body quivering. - -"Sue! Wait!" - -Wilde's voice had been trembling with anger; now, Peter thought, it was -suddenly near to breaking. He reached out one uncertain hand. And a wave -of sympathy for the man flooded Peter's thoughts. "This is where their -'freedom,' their 'self-expression' leads them," he thought bitterly. -Egotism! Selfishness! Spiritual anarchy! It was all summed up, that -revolt, in the girl's outrageous costume as she stood there before that -older man, a minister, her own father! - -She caught the new note in her father's voice, hesitated the merest -instant, but then went straight down the aisle, lips tight, eyes aflame, -seeing and hearing nothing. - -The stage door opened. She ran up the steps, and Peter caught a glimpse -of the hulking Zanin reaching out with a familiar hand to take her arm -and draw her within.... He turned back in time to see Doctor Wilde, -beaten, walking rapidly out to the street, and the poet at the door -looking after him with an expression of sheer uncomprehending irritation -on his keen young face. "There you have it again!" thought Peter. "There -you have the bachelor girl--and her friends!" - -While he was thus indulging his emotions, the curtain went up on Zanin's -little play. - -He stood there near the door, trying to listen. He was too excited to -sit down. Turbulent emotions were rioting within him, making consecutive -thought impossible. He caught bits of Zanin's rough dialogue. He saw Sue -make her entrance, heard the shout of delighted approval that greeted -her, the prolonged applause, the cries of "Bully for you, Sue!"... -"You're all right, Sue!" - -Then Peter plunged out the door and walked feverishly about the Village -streets. He stopped at a saloon and had a drink. - -But the Crossroads Theater fascinated him. He drifted back there and -looked in. The first play was over. Hy was in a dim corner of the lobby, -talking confidentially with Betty Deane. - -Then Sue came out with the Worm, of all persons, at her elbow. So _he_ -had managed to meet her, too? She wore her street dress and looked -amazingly calm. - -Peter dodged around the corner. "The way to get on with women," he -reflected savagely, "is to have no feelings, no capacity for emotion, be -perfectly cold blooded!" - -He walked up to Fourteenth Street and dropped aimlessly into a -moving-picture show. - -Toward eleven he went back to Tenth Street. He even ran a little, -breathlessly, for fear he might be too late, too late for what, he did -not know. - -But he was not. Glancing in at the door, he saw Sue, with Betty, Hy, the -Worm, Zanin and a few others. - -Hurriedly, on an impulse, he found an envelope in his pocket, tore off -the back, and scribbled, in pencil-- - -"May I walk back with you? I want vary much to talk with you. If you -could slip away from these people." - -He went in then, grave and dignified, bowing rather stiffly. Sue -appeared not to see him. - -He moved to her side and spoke low. She did not reply. - -The blood came rushing to Peter's face. Anger stirred. He slipped the -folded envelope into her hand. It was some satisfaction that she had -either to take it or let them all see it drop. She took it; but -Still ignored him. Her intent to snub him was clear now, even to the -bewildered Peter. - -He mumbled something, he did not know what, and rushed away as -erratically as he had come. What had he wanted to say to her, anyway! - -At the corner he turned and came part way back, slowly and uncertainly. -But what he saw checked him. The Worm was talking apart with her now. -And she was looking up into his face with an expression of pleased -interest, frankly smiling. While Peter watched, the two moved off along -the street. - -Peter walked the streets, in a fever of spirit. One o'clock found him -out on the high curve of the Williamsburg bridge where he could lean -on the railing and look down on the river with its colored splashes of -light or up and across at the myriad twinkling towers of the great city. - -"I'll use her!" he muttered. "She is fair game, I tell you! She will -find yet that she must listen to me!" And turning about on the deserted -bridge, Peter clenched his fist and shook it at the great still city on -the island. - -"You will all listen to me yet!" he cried aloud. "Yes, you will--you'll -listen!" - - - -CHAPTER V--PETER TREADS THE HEIGHTS - -|HE walked rapidly back to the rooms. For his bachelor girl play was -swiftly, like magic, working itself out all new in his mind, actually -taking form from moment to moment, arranging and rearranging itself -nearer and nearer to a complete dramatic story. The big scene was fairly -tumbling into form. He saw it as clearly as if it were being enacted -before his eyes.... Father and daughter--the two generations; the solid -Old, the experimental selfish New. - -He could see that typical bachelor girl, too. If she looked like Sue -Wilde that didn't matter. He would teach her a lesson she would never -forget--this "modern" girl who forgets all her parents have done in -giving and developing her life and thinks only of her own selfish -freedom. It should be like an outcry from the old hearthstone. - -And he saw the picture as only a nerve-racked, soul-weary bachelor can -see it. There were pleasant lawns in Peter's ideal home and crackling -fireplaces and merry children and smiling perfect parents--no problems, -excepting that one of the unfilial child. - -Boys had to strike out, of course. But the girl should either marry or -stay at home. He was certain about this. - -On those who did neither--on the bachelor girls, with their -"freedom," their "truth," their cigarettes, their repudiation of all -responsibility--on these he would pour the scorn of his genius. Sue -Wilde, who so plainly thought him uninteresting, should be his target. - -He would write straight at her, every minute, and a world should hear -him! - -In the dark corridor, on the apartment door, a dim square of white -caught his eye--the Worm's little placard. An inner voice whispered to -light a match and read it again. He did so. For he was all inner voices -now. - -There it was: - -DO NOT FEED OR ANNOY - -BOLBOCERAS AMERICANUS MULS - -HABITAT HERE! - -He studied it while his match burned out. He knit his brows, puzzled, -groping after blind thoughts, little moles of thoughts deep in dark -burrows. - -He let himself in. The others were asleep. - -The Worm, in his odd humors, never lacked point or meaning. The placard -meant something, of course... something that Peter could use.... - -The Worm had been reading--that rather fat book lying even now on the -arm of the Morris 'chair It was _Fabre, on Insect Life_. - -He snatched it up and turned the pages. He sought the index for that -word. There it was--Bolbuceras, page 225. Back then to page 225! - -He read: - -"... a pretty little black beetle, with a pale, velvety abdomen... Its -official title is _Bulbuceras Gallicus Muls_." - -He looked up, in perplexity. This was hardly self-explanatory. He -read on. The bolboceras, it began to appear, was a hunter of truffles. -Truffles it would, must have. It would eat no common food but wandered -about sniffing out its vegetable prey in the sandy soil and digging for -each separate morsel, then moving on in its quest. It made no permanent -home for itself. - -Peter raised his eyes and stared at the bookcase in the corner. Very -slowly a light crept into his eyes, an excited smile came to the corners -of his mouth. There was matter here! And Peter, like Homer, felt no -hesitation about taking his own where he found it. - -He read on, a description of the burrows as explored by the hand of the -scientist: - -"_Often the insect will be found at the bottom of its burrow; sometimes -a male, sometimes a female, but always alone. The two sexes work apart -without collaboration. This is no family mansion for the rearing of -offspring; it is a temporary dwelling, made by each insect for its own -benefit_." - -Peter laid the book down almost reverently and stood gazing out the -window at the Square. He quite forgot to consider what the Worm had been -thinking of when he printed out the little placard and tacked it on the -door. He could see it only as a perfect characterization of the bachelor -girls. Every one of those girls and women was a _Bolboceras_, a -confirmed seeker of pleasures and delicacies in the sober game of life, -utterly self-indulgent, going it alone--a truffle hunter. - -He would call his play, _The Bolboceras_. - -But no. "Buyers from Shreveport would fumble it," he thought, shrewdly -practical. "You've got to use words of one syllable on Broadway." - -He paced the room--back and forth, back and forth. _The Truffle-Hunter_, -perhaps. - -Pretty good, that! - -But no--wait! He stood motionless in the middle of the long room, eyes -staring, the muscles of his face strained out of shape, hands clenched -tightly..He was about to create a new thing. - -"_The Truffler!_" - -The words burst from his lips; so loud that he tiptoed to the door and -listened. - -"_The Truffler_," he repeated. "_The Trifler_--no _The Truffler_." - -He was riding high, far above all worldly irritations, tolerant even -toward the little person, Sue Wilde, who had momentarily annoyed him. - -"I had to be stirred," he thought, "that was all. Something had to -happen to rouse me and set my creative self working. New people had to -come into my life to freshen me. It did happen; they did come, and now -I an myself again. I shall not have time for them now, these selfish -bachelor women and there self-styled Jew geniuses. But still I am -grateful to them all. They have helped me." - -He dropped into the chair by the desk, pulled out his manuscript from a -drawer and fell to work. It was five in the morning before he crept into -bed. - -Four days later, his eyes sunken perceptibly, face drawn, color off, -Peter sat for two hours within a cramped disorderly office, reading -aloud to a Broadway theatrical manager who wore his hat tipped down over -his eyes, kept his feet on the mahogany desk, smoked panatelas end -on end and who, like Peter, was deeply conservative where women were -concerned. - -At five-thirty on this same afternoon, Peter, triumphant, acting on a -wholly unconsidered impulse, rushed around the corner of Broadway and -Forty-second Street and into the telephone room of a glittering hotel. -He found Betty Deane's name in the telephone book, and called up the -apartment. - -A feminine voice sounded in his ear. He thought it was Sue Wilde. - -It _was_ Sue Wilde. - -He asked if she could not dine with him. - -There was a long silence at the other end of the wire. - -"Are you there?" he called anxiously. "Hello! Hello!" - -"Yes, I'm here," came the voice. "You rather surprised me, Mr. Mann. I -have an engagement for this evening." - -"Oh, then I can't see you!" - -"I have an engagement." - -He tried desperately to think up conversation; but failed. - -"Well," he said--"_good-by_." - -"Good-by." - -That was all. Peter ate alone, still overstrung but gloomy now, in the -glittering hotel. - -The dinner, however, was both well-cooked and hot. It tended to soothe -and soften him. Finally, expansive again, he leaned hack, fingered his -coffee cup, smoked a twenty-cent cigar and observed the life about him. - -There, were many large dressy women, escorted by sharp-looking men of -two races. There were also small dressy women, some mere girls and -pretty, but nearly all wearing make-up on cheeks and lips and quite all -with extreme, sophistication in their eyes. There was shining silver and -much white linen. Chafing dishes blazed. French and Austrian waiters -moved swiftly about under the commanding eye of a stern captain. -Uniformed but pocketless hat boys slipped it and out, pouncing on every -loose article of apparel.... It was a gay scene; and Peter found himself -in it, of it, for it. With rising exultation in his heart he reflected -that he was back on Broadway, where (after all) he belonged. - -His manager of the afternoon came in now, who believed, with Peter, that -woman's place was the home. He was in evening dress--a fat man. At -his side tripped a very young-appearing girl indeed--the youngest and -prettiest in the room, but with the make-up and sophistication of -the others. Men (and women) stared at them as they passed. There was -whispering; for this was the successful Max Neuerman, and the girl was -the lucky Eileen O'Rourke. - -Neuerrman sighted Peter, greeted him boisterously, himself drew up an -unoccupied chair. Peter was made acquainted with Miss O'Rourke. "This -is the man, Eileen," said Neuerman, breathing confidences, "Wrote _The -Trufiler_. Big thing! Absolutely a new note on Broadway! Eric here has -caught the new bachelor woman, shown her up and put a tag on her. After -this she'll be called a truffler everywhere.... By the way, Eric, I sent -the contract down to you to-night by messenger. And the check." - -Miss Eileen O'Rourke smiled indulgently and a thought absently. While -Peter lighted, thanks to Neuermnn, a thirty-cent cigar and impulsively -told Miss O'Rourke (who continued to smile indulgently and absently) -just how he had come to hit on that remarkable tag. - -It was nearly nine o'clock when he left and walked, very erect, from the -restaurant, conscious of a hundred eyes on his back. He gave the hat boy -a quarter. - -Out on Forty-second Street he paused to clear his exuberant but confused -mind. He couldn't go back to the rooms; not as he felt now. Cabarets -bored him. It was too early for dancing. Irresolute, he strolled over -toward Fifth Avenue, crossed it, turned south. A north-bound automobile -bus stopped just ahead of him. He glanced up at the roof. There appeared -to be a vacant seat or two. In front was the illuminated sign that meant -Riverside Drive. It was warm for February. - -He decided to take the ride. - -Just in front of him, however, also moving toward the bus, was a young -couple. There was something familiar about them. The girl--he could see -by a corner light--was wearing a boyish coat, a plaid coat. Also she wore -a tam o'shanter. She partly turned her head... his pulse started racing, -and he felt the colour rushing into his face. It was Sue Wilde, no other! - -But the man? No overcoat. That soft black hat! A glimpse of a flowing -tie of black silk! The odd trick of throwing his right leg out and -around as he walked and toeing in with the right foot! - -It was the Worm. - -Peter turned sharply away, crossed the street and caught a south-bound -bus. Wavering between irritation, elation and chagrin, he walked in and -out among the twisted old streets of Greenwich Village. Four distinct -times--and for no clear reason--he passed the dingy apartment building -where Sue and Betty lived. - -Later he found himself standing motionless on a curb by a battered -lamp-post, peering through his large horn-rimmed eye-glasses at a -bill-board across the street on which his name did not appear. He -studied the twenty-four-sheet poster of a cut plug tobacco that now -occupied the space. There was light enough in the street to read it by. - -Suddenly he turned and looked to the right. Then he looked to the -left. Fumbling for a pencil, he moved swiftly and resolutely across -the street. Very small, down in the right-hand corner of the tobacco -advertisement, he wrote his name--his pen name--"Eric Mann." - -Then, more nearly at peace with himself, he went to the moving pictures. - -Entering the rooms later, he found the Worm settled, in pajamas as -usual, with a book in the Morris chair. He also found a big envelope -from Neuerman with the contract in it and a check for a thousand -dollars, advanced against royalties. - -It was a brown check. He fingered it for a moment, while his spirits -recorded their highest mark for the day. Then, outwardly calm, he put it -in an inside coat pocket and with a fine air of carelessness tossed the -contract to the desk. - -The Worm put down his book and studied Peter rather thoughtfully. - -"Pete," he finally said, "I've got a message for you, and I've been -sitting here debating whether to deliver it or not." - -"Let's have it!" replied _the_ Eric Mann shortly. - -The Worm produced a folded envelope from the pocket of his pajamas and -handed it ever. "I haven't been told what's in it," he said. - -Peter, with a tremor, unfolded the envelope and peered inside. There -were two enclosures--one plainly his scribbled note to Sue; the other -(he had to draw it partly out and examine it)--yes--no--yes, his -anonymous letter, much crumpled. - -Deliberately, rather white about the mouth, Peter moved to the -fireplace, touched a match to the papers and watched them burn. That -done, he turned and queried: - -"Well? That all?" - -The Worm shook his head. "Not quite all, Pete." - -Words suddenly came from Peter. "What do I care for that girl! A -creative artist has his reactions, of course. He even does foolish -things. Look at Wagner, Burns, Cellini, Michael Angelo--look at the -things they used to do!..." - -The words stopped. - -"Her message is," continued the Worm, "the suggestion that next time you -write one of them with your left hand." - -Peter thought this over. The check glowed next to his heart. It thrilled -him. "You tell your friend Sue Wilde," he replied then, with dignity, -"that my message to her--and to you--will be delivered next September -across the footlights of the Astoria Theater." And he strode into the -bedroom. - -The Worm looked after him with quizzical eyes, smiled a little and -resumed his book. - - - - -CHAPTER VI--THE WORM POURS OIL ON A FIRE - -|PETER came stealthily into the rooms on the seventh floor of the old -bachelor apartment building in Washington Square. His right hand, deep -in a pocket of his spring overcoat, clutched a thin, very new book bound -in pasteboard. It was late on a Friday afternoon, near the lamb-like -close of March. - -The rooms were empty. Which fact brought relief to Peter. - -He crossed the studio to the decrepit flat-top desk between the two -windows. With an expression of gravity, almost of solemnity, on his long -face, lie unlocked the middle drawer on the end next the wail. Within, -on a heap of manuscripts, letters and contracts, lay five other thin -little books in gray, buff and pink. He spread these in a row on the -desk and added the new one. On each was the name of a savings bank, -printed, and his own name, written. They represented savings aggregating -now nearly seven thousand dollars. - -[Illustration: 0071] - -Seven thousand dollars, for a bachelor of thirty-three may seem enough -to you. It did not seem enough to Peter. In fact he was now studying the -six little books through his big horn-rimmed glasses (not spectacles) -with more than a suggestion of anxiety. Peter was no financier; and the -thought of adventuring his savings on the turbulent uncharted seas of -finance filled his mind with terrors. Savings banks appealed to him -because they were built solidly, of stone, and had immense iron gratings -at windows and doors. And, too, you couldn't draw money without going to -some definite personal trouble.... It is only fair to add that the books -represented all he had or would ever have unless he could get more. -Nobody paid Peter a salary. No banker or attorney had a hand in taxing -his income at the source. _The Truffler_ might succeed and make him -mildly rich. Or it might die in a night, leaving the thousand-dollar -"advance against royalties" as his entire income from more than a year -of work. His last two plays had failed, you know. Plays usually failed. -Eighty or ninety per cent, of them--yes, a good ninety! - -Theoretically, the seven thousand dollars should carry him two or -three years. Practically, they might not carry him one. For he couldn't -possibly know in advance what he would do with them. Genius laughs at -savings banks. - -Peter sighed, put the six little books away and locked the drawer. - -Locked it with sudden swiftness and caution, for Hy Lowe just then burst -in the outer door and dove, humming a one-step, into the bedroom. - -Peter, pocketing the keys carefully so that they would not jingle, put -on a casual front and followed him there. - -Hy, still in overcoat and hat, was gazing with rapt eyes at a snap-shot -of two girls. He laughed a little, self-consciously, at the sight of -Peter and set the picture against the mirror on his side of the bureau. - -There were other pictures stuck about Hy's end of the mirror; all of -girls and not all discreet. One of these, pushed aside to make room for -the new one, fell to the floor. Hy let it lie. - -Peter leaned ever and peered at the snap-shot. He recognized the two -girls as Betty Deane and Sue Wilde. - -"Look here," said Peter, "where have you been?" - -"Having a dish of tea." - -"Don't you ever work?" - -"Since friend Betty turned up, my son, I'm wondering if I ever shall." - -Peter grunted. His gaze was centered not on Hy's friend Betty, but on -the slim familiar figure at the right. - -"Just you two?" - -"Sue came in. Look here, Pete, I'm generous. We're going to cut it in -half. I get Betty, you get Sue." - -Peter, deepening gloom on his face, sat down abruptly on the bed. - -"Easy, my son," observed Hy sagely, "or that girl will be going to your -head. That's your trouble, Pete; you take 'em seriously. And believe me, -it won't do!" - -"It isn't that, Hy--I'm not in love with her." - -There was a silence while Hy removed garments. - -"It isn't that," protested Peter again. "No, it isn't that. She -irritates me." - -Hy took off his collar. - -"Any--anybody else there?" asked Peter. - -"Only that fellow Zanin. He came in with Sue. By the way, he wants to -see you. Seems to have an idea he can interest you in a scheme he's got. -Talked quite a lot about it." - -Peter did not hear all of this. At the mention of Zanin he got up -suddenly and rushed off into the studio. - -Hy glanced after him; then hummed (more softly, out of a new respect -for Peter) a hesitation waltz as he cut the new picture in half with the -manicure scissors and put Sue on Peter's side of the bureau. - -The Worm came in, dropped coat and hat on a chair and settled himself to -his pipe and the evening paper. Peter, stretched on the couch, greeted -him with a grunt. Hy appeared, in undress, and attacked the piano with -half-suppressed exuberance. - -It was the Worm's settled habit to read straight through the paper -without a word; then to stroll out to dinner, alone or with the other -two, as it happened, either silent or making quietly casual remarks that -you didn't particularly need to answer if you didn't feel like it. He -made no demands on you, the Worm. He wasn't trivial and gay, like Hy; or -burning with inner ambitions and desires, like Peter. - -On this occasion, however, he broke bounds. Slowly the paper, not -half read, sank to his knees. He smoked up a pipeful thus. His sandy -thoughtful face was sober. - -Finally he spoke. - -"Saw Sue Wilde to-day. Met her outside the Parisian, and we had lunch -together." - -Peter shot a glance at him. - -The Worm, oblivious to Peter, tamped his pipe with a pencil and spoke -again. - -"Been trying to make her out. She and I have had several talks. I can't -place her." - -This was so unusual--from the Worm it amounted to an outburst!--that -even Hy, swinging around from the yellow keyboard, waited in silence. - -"You fellows know Greenwich Village," the musing one went on, puffing -slowly and following with his eyes the curling smoke. "You know the -dope---'Oats for Women!' somebody called it--that a woman must be free -as a man, free to go to the devil if she chooses. You know, so -often, when these feminine professors of freedom talk to you how they -over-emphasize the sex business--by the second quarter-hour you find -yourself solemnly talking woman's complete life, rights of the unmarried -mother, birth control; and after you've got away from the lady you can't -for the life of you figure out how those topics ever got started, when -likely as not you were thinking about your job or the war or Honus -Wagner's batting slump. You know." - -Hy nodded, with a quizzical look. Peter was motionless and silent. - -"You know--I don't want to knock; got too much respect for the real -idealists here in the Village--but you fellows do know how you get to -anticipating that stuff and discounting it before it comes; and you -can't help seeing that the woman is more often than not just dressing up -ungoverned desires in sociological language, that she's leaping at the -chance to experiment with emotions that women have had to suppress for -ages. Back of it is the new Russianism they live and breathe--to know no -right or wrong, trust your instincts, respond to your emotions, bow to -your desires.... Well, now, here's Sue Wilde. She looks like a regular -little radical. And acts it. Breaks away from her folks--lives with the -regular bunch in the Village--takes up public dancing and acting--smokes -her cigarettes--knows her Strindberg and Freud--yet... well, I've dined -with her once, lunched with her once, spent five hours in her apartment -talking Isadora Duncan as against Pavlowa, even walked the streets half -a night arguing about what she calls the Truth... and we haven't got -around to 'the complete life' yet." - -"How do you dope it out?" asked Hy. - -"Well"--the Worm deliberately thought out his reply--"I think she's -so. Most of 'em aren't so. She's a real natural oasis in a desert of -poseurs. Probably that's why I worry about her." - -"Why worry?" From Hy. - -"True enough. But I do. It's the situation she has drifted into, I -suppose. If she was really mature you'd let her look out for herself. -It's the old he protective instinct in me, I suppose. The one thing -on earth she would resent more than anything else. But this fellow -Zanin..." - -He painstakingly made a smoke ring and sent it toward the tarnished -brass hook on the window-frame. It missed. He tried again. - -Peter stirred uncomfortably, there on the couch. "What has she told you -about Zanin?" he asked, desperately controlling his voice. - -"She doesn't know that she has told me much of anything. But she has -talked her work and prospects. And the real story comes through. Just -this afternoon since I left her, it has been piecing itself together. -She is frank, you know." - -Peter suppressed a groan. She was frank! "Zanin is in love with her. He -has been for a year or more. He wrote _Any Street_ for her, incorporated -some of her own ideas in it. He has been tireless at helping her work up -her dancing and pantomime. Why, as near as I can see, the man has -been downright devoting his life to her, all this time. It's rather -impressive. But then, Zanin _is_ impressive." - -Peter broke out now. "Does he expect to marry her--Zanin?" - -"Marry her? Oh, no." - -"'Oh, no!' Good God then--" - -"Oh, come, Pete, you surely know Zanin's attitude toward marriage. He -has written enough on the subject. And lectured--and put it in those -little plays of his." - -"What _is_ his attitude?" - -"That marriage is immoral. Worse than immoral--vicious. He has expounded -that stuff for years." - -"And what does she say to all this?" This question came from Hy, for -Peter was speechless. - -"Simply that he doesn't rouse any emotional response in her. I'm not -sure that she isn't a little sorry he doesn't. She would be honest you -know. And that's the thing about Sue--my guess about her, at least--that -she won't approach love as an experiment or an experience. It will have -to be the real thing." - -He tried again, in his slow calm way, to hang a smoke ring on the brass -hook. - -"Proceed," said Hy. "Your narrative interests me strangely." - -"Well," said the Worm slowly, "Zanin is about ready to put over his big -scheme. He has contrived at last to get one of the managers interested. -And it hangs on Sue's personality. The way he has worked it out with -her, planning it as a concrete expression of that half wild, natural -self of hers, I doubt if it, this particular thing, could be done -without her. It _is_ Sue--an expressed, interpreted Sue." - -"This must be the thing he is trying to get Pete in on." - -"The same. Zanin knows that where he fails is on the side of popularity. -He has intelligence, but he hasn't the trick of reaching the crowd. And -he is smart enough to see what he needs and go after it." - -"He is going after the crowd, then?" - -"Absolutely." - -"And what becomes of the noble artistic standards he's been bleeding and -dying for?" - -"I don't know. He really has been bleeding and dying. You have to admit -that. He lives in one mean room, over there in Fourth Street. A good -deal of the little he eats he cooks with his own hands on a kerosene -stove. Those girls are always taking him in and feeding him up. He -works twenty and thirty hours at a stretch over his productions at the -Crossroads. Must have the constitution of a bull elephant. If it -was just a matter of picking up money, he could easily go back into -newspaper work or the press-agent game.... I'm not sure that the man -isn't full of a struggling genius that hasn't really begun to find -expression. If he is, it will drive him into bigger and bigger things. -He won't worry about consistency--he'll just do what every genius does. -he'll fight his way through to complete self-expression, blindly, madly, -using everything that comes in his way, trampling on everything that he -can't use." - -Peter, twitching with irritation, sat up and snorted out: - -"For God's sake, what's the _scheme!_" - -The Worm regarded Peter thoughtfully and not unhumorously, as if -reflecting further over his observations on genius. Then he explained: - -"He's going to preach the Greenwich Village freedom on every little -moving-picture screen in America--shout the new naturalism to a -hypocritical world." - -"Has he worked out his story?" asked Hy. - -"In the rough, I think. But he wants a practical theatrical man to give -it form and put it over. That's where Pete comes in.... Get it? It's -during stuff. He'll use Sue's finest quality, her faith, as well as her -grace of body. What I could get out of it sounds a good deal like the -Garden of Eden story without the moral. An Artzibasheff paradise. Sue -says that she'll have to wear a pretty primitive costume." - -"Which doesn't bother her, I imagine," said Hy. - -"Not a bit." - -Peter, leaning back on stiff arms, staring at the opposite wall, -suddenly found repictured to his mind's eye a dramatic little scene: -In the Crossroads Theater, out by the ticket entrance; the audience in -their seats, old Wilde, the Walrus himself, in his oddly primitive', -early Methodist dress--long black coat, white bow tie, narrow strip of -whisker on each grim cheek; Sue in her newsboy costume, hair cut short -under the ragged felt hat, face painted for the stage, her deep-green -eyes blazing. The father had said: "You have no shame, then--appearing -like this?" To which the daughter had replied: "No--none!" - -Hy was speaking again. "You don't mean to say that Zanin will be able to -put this scheme over on Sue?" - -The Worm nodded, very thoughtful. "Yes, she is going into it, I think." - -Peter broke cut again: "But--but--but--but.... - -"You fellows want to get this thing straight in your heads," the Worm -continued, ignoring Peter. "Her reasons aren't by any means so weak. In -the first place the thing comes to her as a real chance to express in -the widest possible way her own protest against conventionality. As -Zanin has told her, she will be able to express naturalness and honesty -of life to millions where Isadora Duncan, with all her perfect art, can -only reach thousands. Yes, Zanin is appealing to her best qualities. -And, at that, I'm not at all sure that he isn't honest in it.' - -"Honest!" snorted Peter. - -"Yes, honest. I don't say he is. I say I'm not sure.... Then another -argument with her is that he has really been helping her to grow. He has -given her a lot--and without making any crude demands. Obligations have -grown up there, you see. She knows that his whole heart is in it, that -it's probably his big chance; and while the girl is modest enough she -can see how dependent the whole plan is on her." - -"But--but--but"--Peter again!--"think what she'll find herself up -against--the people she'll have to work with--the vulgarity. - -"I don't know," mused the Worm. "I'm not sure it would bother her much. -Those things don't seem to touch her. And she isn't the sort to be -stopped by conventional warnings, anyway. She'll have to find it out all -for herself." - -The Worm gave himself up again to the experiment with smoke rings. He -blew one--another--a third--at the curtain hook..The fourth wavered down -over the hook, hung a second, broke and trailed off into the atmosphere. -".Got it!" said the Worm, to himself. - -"Who's the manager he's picked up?" asked Hy. - -"Fellow named Silverstone. Head of a movie producing company." - -Peter, to whom this name was, apparently, the last straw, shivered a -little, sprang to his feet, and for the second time within the hour -rushed blindly off into solitude. - - - - -CHAPTER VII--PETER THINKS ABOUT THE PICTURES - - - -|WHEN Hy set out for dinner, a little later, he found Peter sitting on a -bench in the Square. - -"Go in and get your overcoat," said Hy. "Unless you're out for -pneumonia." - -"Hy," said Peter, his color vivid, his eyes wild, "we can't let those -brutes play with Sue; like that. We've got to save her." - -Hy squinted down at his bamboo stick. "Very good, my son. But just how?" - -"If I could talk with her, Hy!... I know that game so well!" - -"You could call her up--" - -"Call her up nothing! I can't ask to see her and start cold." He -gestured vehemently. "Look here, you're seeing Betty every day--you fix -it." - -Hy mused. "They're great hands to take tramps in the country, those two. -Most every Sunday.... If I could arrange a little party of four.... See -here! Betty's going to have dinner with me to-morrow night." - -"For God's sake, Hy, get me in on it!" - -"Now you just wait! Sue'll be playing to-morrow night at the Crossroads, -It's Saturday, you know." - -Peter's face fell. - -"But it gives me the chance to talk it over with friend Betty and -perhaps plan for Sunday. If Zanin'll just leave her alone that long." - -"It isn't as if I were thinking of myself, Hy..." - -"Of course not, Pete." - -"The girl's in danger. We've _got_ to save her." - -"What if she won't listen! She's high-strung." - -"Then," said Peter, flaring up with a righteous passion that made him -feel suddenly like the hero of his own new play--"then I'll go straight -to Zanin and force him to declare himself! I will face him, as man to -man!" - -Thus the two Seventh-Story Men! - -At moments, during the few weeks just past, thoughts of his anonymous -letter had risen to disturb Peter; on each occasion, until to-night, to -be instantly overwhelmed by the buoyant egotism that always justified -Peter to himself. But the thoughts had been there. They had kept him -from attempts to see Sue, had even restrained him from appearing where -there was likelihood of her seeing him; and they had kept him excited -about her. Now they rose again in unsuspected strength. Of course she -would refuse to see him! He slept hardly at all that night. The next day -he was unstrung. And Saturday night (or early Sunday morning) when Hy -crept in, Peter, in pajamas, all lights out, was sitting by the window -nursing a headache, staring out with smarting eyeballs at the empty -Square. - -"Worm here?" asked Hy guardedly. - -"Asleep." - -Hy lighted the gas; then looked closely at the wretched Peter. - -"Look here, my son," he said then, "you need sleep." - -"Sleep"--muttered Peter, "good God!" - -"Yes, I know, but you've got a delicate job on your hands. It'll take -expert handling. You've got to be fit." - -"Did you--did you see Sue?" - -"No, only Betty. But they've been talking you over. Sue told Betty that -you interest her." - -"Oh--she did! Say anything else?" - -"More or less. Look here--has anything happened that I'm not in on? I -mean between you and Sue." - -Peter shivered slightly. "How could anything happen? I haven't been -seeing her." - -"Well--Sue says you're the strangest man she ever knew. She can't figure -you out. Betty was wondering." - -Hy was removing his overcoat now. Suddenly he gave way to a soft little -chuckle. - -"For Heaven's sake, don't laugh!" - -"I was thinking of something else. Yes, I fixed it. But there's -something up--a new deal. This here Silverstone saw _Any Street_ last -night and went dippy over Sue. Betty told me that much but says she -can't tell me the rest because it's Sue's secret, not hers. Only it came -out that Zanin has dropped the idea of bringing you into it. Silverstone -bought supper for the girls and Zanin last night, and this afternoon he -took Zanin out to his Long Beach house for the night, in a big car. And -took his stenographer along. Everybody's mysterious and in a hurry. Oh, -there's a hen on, all right!" - -"So I'm out!" muttered Peter between set teeth. "But it's no mystery. -Think I don't know Silverstone?" - -"What'll he do?" - -"Freeze out everybody and put Sue across himself. What's that guy's is -his. Findings is keepings." - -"But will Sue let him freeze Zanin out?" - -"That's a point.... But if she won't, he'll he wise in a minute. Trust -Silverstone! He'll let Zanin _think_ he's in, then." - -"Things look worse, I take it." - -"A lot." - -Hy was undressing. He sat now, caught by a sudden fragrant memory, -holding a shoe in midair, and chuckled again. - -"Stop that cackle!" growled Peter. "You said you fixed it." - -"I did. Quit abusing me and you'll realize that I'm coming through with -all you could ask. We leave at eleven, Hudson Tunnel, for the Jersey -hills--we four. I bring the girls; you meet us at the Tunnel. Zanin is -safe at Long Beach. We eat at a country road house. We walk miles in the -open country. We drift home in the evening, God knows when!... Here I -hand you, in one neat parcel, pleasant hillsides, purling brooks, twelve -mortal hours of the blessed damosel, and"--he caught up the evening -paper--"'fair and warmer'--and perfect weather. And what do I get? -Abuse. Nothing but abuse!" - -With this, he deftly juggled his two shoes, caught both in a final -flourish, looked across at the abject Peter and grinned. - -"Shut up," muttered Peter wearily. - -"Very good, sir. And you go to bed. Your nerves are a mess." - -Into Peter's brain as he hurried toward the Tunnel Station, the next -morning, darted an uninvited, startling thought. - -Here was Zanin, idealist in the drama, prophet of the new Russianism, -deserting the stage for the screen! - -What was it the Worm had represented him as saying to Sue... that she -would be enabled to express her ideals to millions where Isadora Duncan -could reach only thousands? - -Millions in place of thousands! - -His imagination pounced on the thought. He stopped short on the street -to consider it--until a small boy laughed; then he hurried on. - -He looked with new eyes at the bill-boards he passed. Two-thirds of them -flaunted moving-picture features.... He had been passing such posters -for a year or more without once reading out of them a meaning personal -to himself. He had been sticking blindly, doggedly to plays--ninety per -cent, of which, of all plays, failed utterly. It suddenly came home -to him that the greatest dramatists, like the greatest actors and -actresses, were working for the camera. All but himself, apparently!... -The theaters were fighting for the barest existence where they were not -surrendering outright. Why, he himself patronized movies more often than -plays! Yet he had stupidly refused to catch the significance of it.... -_The Truffler_ would fail, of course; just as the two before it had -failed. Still he had, until this actual minute, clung to it as his one -hope. - -Millions for thousands! - -He was thinking now not of persons but of dollars. - -Millions for thousands. - -He paused at a news stand. Sprawled over it were specimens of the new -sort of periodical, the moving-picture magazines. So the publishers, -like the theatrical men, were being driven back by the invader. - -He bought the fattest, most brightly colored of these publications and -turned the pages eagerly as he descended into the station. - -He stood half-hidden behind a pillar, his eyes wandering from the -magazine to the ticket gate where Hy and the two girls would appear, -then back to the magazine. Those pages reeked of enthusiasm, fresh -ideas, prosperity. They stirred new depths within his soul. - -He saw his little party coming in through the gate. - -The two girls wore sweaters. Their skirts were short, their tan shoes -low and flat of heel. - -They were attractive, each in her individual way; Sue less regular as -to features, but brighter, slimmer, more alive. Betty's more luxurious -figure was set off almost too well by the snug sweater. As she moved, -swaying a little from the hips, her eyelids drooping rather languidly, -the color stirring faintly under her fair fine skin, she was, Peter -decided, unconscious neither of the sweater nor of the body within -it.... Just before the train roared in, while Sue, all alertness, was -looking out along the track, Peter saw Hy's hand brush Betty's. For -an instant their fingers intertwined; then the hands drifted casually -apart. - - - -CHAPTER VIII--SUE WALKS OVER A HILL - -|PETER joined them--a gloomy man, haunted by an anonymous letter. Sue -was matter-of-fact. It seemed to Hy that she made some effort to put the -well-known playwright more nearly at his ease. - -They lurched, an hour's ride out in Northern New Jersey, at a little -motorists' tavern that Hy guided them to. They sat on a shaded veranda -while the men smoked cigars and the girls smoked cigarettes. After which -they set forth on what was designed to be a four-hour tramp through the -hills to another railroad--Sue and Peter ahead (as it turned out); Hy -and Betty lagging behind. - -The road curved over hills and down into miniature valleys. There -were expanses of plowed fields, groves of tall bare trees, groups of -farmhouses. Robins hopped beside the road. The bright sun mitigated the -crisp sting in the air. A sense of early spring touched eye and ear and -nostril. - -Peter felt it; breathed more deeply; actually smiled. - -Sue threw back her head and hummed softly. - -Hy and Betty dropped farther and farther behind. - -Once Sue turned and waved them on; then stood and laughed with sheer -good humor at their deliberate, unrhythmical step. - -"Come on," she said to Peter "They don't get it--the joy of it. You have -to walk with a steady swing. It takes you a mile or two, at that, to get -going. When I'm in my stride, it carries me along so I hate to stop at -all. You know, you can't pick it up again right off--the real swing. -Walking is a game--a fine game!" - -Peter didn't know. He had never thought of walking as a game. He played -golf a little, tennis a little less. It had always been difficult for -him to hold his mind on these unimportant pursuits. But he found himself -responding eagerly. - -"You've gone in a lot for athletics," said he, thinking of the -lightness, the sheer ease, with which she had moved about the little -Crossroads stage. - -"Oh, yes--at school and college--basket ball, running, fencing, dancing -and this sort of thing. Dancing especially. I've really worked some at -that, you know." - -"Yes," said he moodily, "I know." - -They swung down into a valley, over a bridge, up the farther slope, -through a notch and out along a little plateau with a stream winding -across it. - -Peter found himself in some danger of forgetting his earnest purpose. -He could fairly taste the fresh spring air. He could not resist -occasionally glancing sidelong at his companion and thinking--"She is -great in that sweater!" A new soft magic was stealing in everywhere -among what he had regarded as his real thoughts and ideas. Once her -elbow brushed his; and little flames rose in his spirit.... She walked -like a boy. She talked like a boy. She actually seemed to think like a -boy. The Worm's remark came to him, with an odd stabbing effect... "We -haven't got around to 'the complete life' yet!" - -She quite bewildered him. For she distinctly was not a boy. She was a -young woman. She couldn't possibly be so free from thoughts of self and -the drama of life, of man and the all-conquering urge of nature! As a -dramatist, as a student of women, he knew better. No, she couldn't--no -more than "friend Betty" back there, philandering along with Hy, The -Worm had guaranteed her innocence... but the Worm notoriously didn't -understand women. No, it couldn't be true. For she _had_ broken away -from her folks. She _did_ live with the regular bunch in the Village. -She _did_ undoubtedly know her Strindberg and Freud. She _had_ taken up -public dancing and acting. She _did_ smoke her cigarettes--had smoked -one not half an hour back, publicly, on the veranda of a road house! -... He felt again the irritation she had on other occasions stirred in -him. - -He slowed down, tense with this bewilderment. He drew his hand across -his forehead. - -Sue went on a little ahead; then stopped, turned and regarded him with -friendly concern! - -"Anything the matter?" - -"No--oh, no!" - -"Perhaps we started too soon after lunch." - -She was babying him! - -"No--no... I was thinking of something!..." - -Almost angrily he struck out at a swift pace. He would show her who was -the weakling in _this_ little party! He would make her cry for mercy! - -But she struck out with him. Swinging along at better than four miles -an hour they followed the road into another valley and for a mile or two -along by a bubbling brook. - -It was Peter who slackened first. His feet began hurting: an old trouble -with his arches. And despite the tang in the air, he was dripping with -sweat. He mopped his forehead and made a desperate effort to breathe -easily. - -Sue was a thought flushed, there was a shine in her eyes; she danced a -few steps in the road and smiled happily. - -"That's the thing!" she cried. "That's the way I love to move along!" - -Apparently she liked him better for walking like that. It really -seemed to make a difference. He set his teeth and struck out again, -saying--"All right. Let's have some more of it, then!" And sharp little -pains shot through his insteps. - -"No," said she, "it's best to slow down for a while. I like to speed up -just now and then. Besides, I've got something on my mind. Let's talk." -He walked in silence, waiting. - -"It's about that other talk we had," said she. "It has bothered me -since. I told you your plays were dreadful. You remember?" - -He laughed shortly. "Oh, yes; I remember." - -"There," said she, "I did hurt you. I must have been perfectly -outrageous." - -He made no reply to this; merely mopped his forehead again and strode -along. The pains were shooting above the insteps now, clear up into the -calves of his legs. - -"I ought to have made myself plainer," said she. "I remember talking as -if you couldn't write at all. Of course I didn't mean that, and I had no -right to act as if I held myself superior to a man of your experience. -That was silly. What I really meant was that you didn't write from a -point of view that I could accept." - -"What you said was," observed Peter, aiming at her sort of good-humored -directness, and missing, "'the difficulty is, it's the whole thing--your -attitude toward life--your hopeless sentimentality about women, the -slushy horrible Broadway falseness that lies back of everything you -do--the Broadway thing, always.'... Those were your words." - -"Oh, no!" She was serious now. He thought she looked hurt, almost. The -thought gave him sudden savage pleasure. "Surely, I didn't say that." - -"You did. And you added that my insight into life is just about that of -a hardened director of one-reel films." - -She was hurt now. She walked on for a little time, quite silent. - -Finally she stopped short, looked right at him, threw out her hands (he -noted and felt the grace of the movement!) and said-- - -"I don't know how to answer you. Probably I did say just about those -words." - -"They are exact... and of course, in one sense, I meant them. I do -feel that way about your work. But not at all in the personal sense that -you have taken it. And I recognize your ability as clearly as anybody. -Can't you see, man--that's exactly the reason I talked that way to you?" -There was feeling in her voice now. "I suppose I had a crazy, kiddish -notion of converting you, of making you work for us. It was because you -are so good at it that I went after you like that. You are worth going -after." She hesitated, and bit her lip. "That's why I was so pleased -when Zanin thought he needed you for our big plan and disappointed now -that he can't include you in it--because you could help us and we could -perhaps help you. Yes, disappointed--in spite of--and--and don't forget -the other thing I said, that those of us that believe in truth in the -theater owe it to our faith to get to work on the men that supply the -plays.... Can't you see, man!" - -She threw out her arms again. His eyes, something of the heady spirits -that she would perhaps have called sex attraction shining in them now, -could see little more than those arms, the slim curves of her body in -the sweater and short skirt, her eager glowing face and fine eyes. And -his mind could see no more than his eyes. - -An automobile horn sounded. He caught her arm and hurried her to the -roadside. There were more of the large bare trees here; and a rail fence -by which they stood. - -"You say Zanin has given up the idea of coming to me with his plan?" -He spoke guardedly, thinking that he must not betray the confidences of -Betty and Hy. - -"Yes, he has had to." - -"He spoke to me about it, once." - -"Yes, I know. But the man that is going to back him wants to do that -part of it himself or have his own director do it." - -Pictures unreeled suddenly before his mind's eye--Sue, in "a pretty -primitive costume," exploited at once by the egotistical self-seeking -Zanin, the unscrupulous, masterful Silverstone, a temperamental, -commercial director! He shivered. - -"Look here," he began--he would fall back on his age and position; -he would control this little situation, not drift through it!--"you -mentioned my experience. Well, you're right. I've seen these Broadway -managers with their coats off. And I've seen what happens to -enthusiastic girls that fall into their hands." - -He hesitated; that miserable letter flashed on his brain. He could -fairly see it. And then his tongue ran wild. - -"Don't you know that Broadway is paved with the skulls of enthusiastic -girls!... Silverstone? Why, if I were to give you a tenth of -Silverstone's history you would shrink from him--you wouldn't touch the -man's ugly hand. Here you are, young, attractive--yes, beautiful, in -your own strange way!--full of a real faith in what you call the truth, -on the edge of giving up your youth and your gifts into the hands of a -bunch of Broadway crooks. You talk about me and the Broadway Thing. Good -God, can't you see that it's girls like you that make the Broadway Thing -possible!... You talk of my sentimentality about women, my -'home-and-mother-stuff,' can't you see the reason for that -home-and-mother stuff, for that sentimentality, is the tens of thousands -of girls, like you and unlike you who wanted to experiment, who thought -they could make the world what they wanted it!" - -He paused to breathe. The girl before him was distinctly flushed now, -and was facing him with wide eyes--hard eyes, he thought. He had poured -out a flood of feeling, and it had left her cold. - -She was leaning back against the fence, her arms extended along the top -rail, looking and looking at him. - -"Silverstone!" he snorted, unable to keep silence "Silverstone! The -man's a crook, I tell you. Nothing that he wants gets away from him. -Understand me? Nothing! You people will be children beside him.... -Zanin is bad enough. He's smart! He'll wait you out! He doesn't believe -in marriage, he doesn't! But Zanin--why, Silverstone'll play with him!" - -Her eyes were still on him--wide and cold. Now her lips parted, and she -drew in a quick breath, "How on earth," she said, "did you learn all -this! Who told you?" - -He shut his lips close together. Plainly he had broken; he had gone -wild, cleared the traces. Staring at her, at that sweater, he tried to -think.... She would upbraid Betty. How would he ever square things with -Hy! - -He saw her hands grip the fence rail so tightly that her finger-tips -went white. - -"Tell me," she said again, with deliberate emphasis, "where you learned -these things. Who told you?" - -He felt rather than saw the movement of her body within the sweater as -she breathed with a slow inhalation. His own breath came quickly. His -throat was suddenly dry. He swallowed--once, twice. Then he stepped -forward and laid his hand, a trembling hard, on her forearm. - -She shook it off and sprang back. - -"Don't look at me like that!" his voice said. And rushed on: "Can't you -see that I'm pleading for your very life! Can't you see that I _know_ -what you are headed for--that I want to save you from yourself--that I -love you--that I'm offering you my life--that I want to take you out of -this crazy atmosphere of the Village and give..." - -He stopped, partly because he was out of breath, and felt, besides, -as if his tonsils had abruptly swollen and filled his throat; partly -because she turned deliberately away from him. - -He waited, uneasily leaning against the fence while she walked off a -little way, very slowly; stood thinking; then came back. She looked -rather white now, he thought. - -"Suppose," she said, "we drop this and finish our walk. It's a good -three hours yet over to the other railroad. We may as well make a job of -it." - -"Oh, Sue," he cried--"how can you!..." - -She stopped him. "Please!" she said. - -"But--but--" - -"Please!" she said again. - -"But--but--" - -She turned away. "I simply can not keep up this personal talk. I would -be glad to finish the walk with you, but..." - -He pulled himself together amid the wreckage of his thoughts and -feelings. "But if I won't or can't, you'll have to walk alone," he said -for her. - -"Yes, I did mean that. I am sorry. I did hope it would be possible." -She compressed her lips, then added: "Of course I should have seen that -it wasn't possible, after what happened." - -"Very well," said he. - -They walked on, silent, past the woods, past more plowed fields, up -another hillside. - -She broke the silence. Gravely, she said: "I will say just one thing -more, since you already know so much. Zarin signs up with Silverstone -to-morrow morning. Or as soon as they can finish drawing up the -contracts. Then within one or two weeks--very soon, certainly--we go -down to Cuba or Florida to begin taking the outdoor scenes. That, you -see, settles it." - -Peter's mind blurred again. Ugly foggy thoughts rushed over it. He -stopped short, his long gloomy face workhing nervously. - -"Good God!" he broke out. "You mean to say--you're going to let those -crooks take you off--to Cuba! Don't you see..." - -There was no object in saying more. Even Peter could see that. For Sue, -after one brief look at his sputtering, distorted face, had turned away -and was now walking swiftly on up the hill. - -"Wait!" he called. "Sue!" - -She reached the top of the hill, passed on over the crest. Gradually she -disappeared down the farther slope--the tam o'shanter last. - - - - -CHAPTER IX--THE NATURE FILM PRODUCING CO. INC. - -|THEN Peter, muttering, talking out loud to the road, the fence, the -trees, the sky, turned back to retrace the miles they had covered so -lightly and rapidly. His feet and legs hurt him cruelly. He found a -rough stick, broke it over a rock and used it for a cane. - -He thought of joining Hy and Betty. There would be sympathy there, -perhaps. Hy could do something. Hy would have to do something. Where -were they, anyway! - -Half an hour later he caught a glimpse of them. They were sitting on a -boulder on a grassy hillside, some little distance from the road. They -appeared to be gazing dreamily off across a valley. - -Peter hesitated. They were very close together. They hardly seemed to -invite interruption. Then, while he stood, dusty and bedraggled, in real -pain, watching them, he saw Betty lean back against the boulder--or was -it against Hy's arm? - -Hy seemed to be leaning over her. His head bent lower still. It quite -hid hers from view. - -He was kissing her! - -Blind to the shooting pains in his feet and legs, Peter rushed, -stumbling, away. In his profound self-pity, he felt that even Hy had -deserted him. He was alone, in a world that had no motive or thought but -to do him evil, to pervert his finest motives, to crush him! - -Somehow he got back to that railroad. An hour and a half he spent -painfully sitting in the country station waiting for a train. There was -time to think. There was time for nothing but thinking. - -And Peter, as so often when deeply stirred either by joy or misery, -found himself passing into a violent and soul-wrenching reaction. It was -misery this time. He was a crawling abject thing. People would laugh. -Sue would laugh... - -But would she! Would she tell? Would Hy and Betty, if they ever did get -home, know that she had returned alone? - -Those deep-green eyes of hers, the strong little chin.... She was Miss -Independence herself. - -Zanin was signing with Silverstone in the morning! Or as soon as the -contracts could be drawn. - -The train came rumbling in. Peter, in, physical and spiritual agony, -boarded it. - -All these painful, exciting experiences of the day were drawing together -toward some new unexpected result. He was beaten--yet was he beaten! A -news agent walked through the train with a great pile of magazines on his -arm. - -Peter suddenly thought of the moving-picture periodical he had dropped, -so long, long ago, in the Tunnel Station. He bought another copy; and -again turned the pages. Then he let it fall to his knees and stared out -the window with eyes that saw little. - -Zanin--Silverstone--Sue walking alone over a hill!... Peters little lamp -of genius was burning once more. He was thrilled, if frightened, by the -ideas that were forming in that curious mind of his. - -Shortly after seven o'clock of the same evening Jacob Zanin reached his -mean little room in Fourth Street, after a stirring twenty-four hours -at Silver-stone's house at Long Beach and an ineffectual attempt to find -Sue in her rooms. Those rooms were dim and silent. No one answered his -ring. No one answered his knock when he finally succeeded in following -another tenant of the building into the inner hall. Which explains why -he was at his room, alone, at a quarter to eight when Peter Ericson Mann -called there. - -Peter, pale, nerves tense, a feverish glow in his eyes behind the -horn-rimmed glasses, leaned heavily on a walking stick in the dark -hallway, listening to the sound of heavy footsteps coming across the -creaking boards on the other side of the door. Then the door opened; and -Zanin, coatless, collarless, hair rumpled over his ears on either side -of his head, stood there; a hulking figure of a man, full of force, not -untouched with inner fire; a little grim; his face, that of a vigorously -intellectual Russian peasant, scarred perceptibly by racial and personal -hardship. - -"Oh, hello, Mann!" said he. "Come in." Then, observing the stick: -"What's the matter?" - -"A little arch trouble. Nothing at all." And Peter limped in. - -Peter, as on former occasions, felt the power of the fellow. It was -altogether in character that he should exhibit no surprise, though Peter -Ericson Mann had never before appeared before him at that door. (He -would never know that it was Peter's seventh call within an hour and a -half.) - -Peter was at his calmest and most effective. - -He looked casually about at the scant furniture, the soap boxes heaped -with books, the kerosene stove, symbol of Zanin's martyrdom to his art. - -"Zanin," he said, "two things stuck in my mind the other night when you -and I had our little talk. One was the fact that you had got hold of a -big idea; and that a man of your caliber wouldn't be giving his time to -a proposition that didn't have something vital in it.... The other thing -is Sue Wilde." - -Zanin was tipped back in an armless wooden chair, taking Peter in with -eyes that were shrewd and cold, but not particularly hostile. - -"I didn't realize at the time what an impression that girl was making -on me. But I haven't been able to shake it off. She has something -distinctly unusual--call it beauty, charm, personally--I don't know what -it is. But she has it." - -"Yes," said Zanin, "she has it. But see here, Mann, the whole situation -has changed since then--" - -"Yes," Peter broke in. "I know." - -"You know?" - -Peter nodded, offhand. "Betty Deane has talked to Hy Lowe about it, and -Hy has told me. I'm pretty well informed, as a matter of fact." - -"You know about--" - -"Silverstone? Yes. Tell me, have you closed with him?" - -"Well"--Zanin hesitated.. He was disturbed. "Not in writing, no." - -"Don't you do it, then." - -Zanin pursed his lips, hooked his feet around the legs of his chair and -tapped on the front of the seat with his large fingers. - -"It's regular money, Mann," he said. - -"You said you could interest me. Why don't you try?" - -"Regular money is regular money." - -"Not if you don't get it." - -"Why shouldn't I get it?" - -"Because Silverstone will. And look what he'll do to your ideas--a -conventional commercialist!" Zanin considered this. "I've got to risk -that. Or it looks so. This thing can't possibly be done cheap. I propose -to do something really new in a feature film--new in groupings, new in -lighting, new in the simplicity and naturalness of the acting. It -will be a daring theme, highly controversial, which means building up -publicity. It will take regular money. Sue is in just the right frame of -mind. A year from now God knows what she'll be thinking and feeling. She -might turn square against our Village life, all of a sudden. I've seen -it happen.... And now, with everything right, here the money comes to me -on a platter. Lord, man, I've got to take it--risk or no risk!" - -They were about to come to grips. Peter felt his skin turning cold. His -throat went dry again, as in the afternoon. - -"How much"--he asked, outwardly firmer than he would have dared -hope--"how much do you need?" - -Zanin really started now, and stared at him. - -"See here," he said, "I've gone pretty far in with Silver stone." - -"But you haven't signed?" - -"No." - -"Nor taken his money?" - -"No." - -Peter laughed shortly. "Do you think _he_ would consider himself bound -by anything you may have said! Silverstone!" - -This was a point. He could see Zanin thinking it over. - -"How much do you need?" he asked again. - -"Well--" - -"What do you think will happen the minute Sue really discovers the sort -of hands she's in? Even if she would want to stick to you!" - -This was another point. - -"Well"--said Zanin, thinking fast--"it needn't be lavish, like these big -battle films and such. But it will take money." - -"How much money?" - -"Three or four thousand. Maybe five or six. It means going south for the -outdoor scenes. I want tropical foliage, so my people won't look frozen. -And publicity isn't cheap, you know." - -Peter gulped; but plunged on. "I'll tell you what you do, Zanin. Get -another man--a littler producer than Silverstone--and have him supply -studio, operators, and all the plant necessary, on a partnership basis, -you to put in some part of the cash needed." - -"Great!" said Zanin. "Fine! And where's the cash to come from?" - -"From me." - -The front legs of Zanin's chair came to the floor with a bang. - -"This is new stuff, Mann." - -"New stuff. I'm not rich, but I believe you've got a big thing here, and -I stand willing to put up a few thousand on a private contract with you. -This can be just between ourselves. All I ask is a reasonable control of -the expenditure." - -Zanin thought--and thought. Peter could see the shifting lights in his -cold clear eyes. - -He moved over to the window and stared out into the area-way, where -electric lamps and gas flames twinkled from a hundred other rear -buildings. He came back to his chair and lit a cigarette. - -"You're on!" he finally said. "If you want to know, I _am_ worried about -Silverstone. And I'm certainly in no position to turn down such an offer -as this." - -Which was the genesis of The Nature Film Producing Co., Inc., Jacob -Zanin, Pres't. They talked late, these new partners. - -It was nearly one o'clock in the morning when Peter limped into the -rooms. - -He found Hy pitting by the window in his pajamas, gazing rapturously -at a lacy handerchief. - -"Aha!" said Hy, "he comes! Never mind the hour, my boy! I take off my -hat. You're better than I am--better than I! A _soupçon_ of speed, ol' -dear!"' - -Peter dropped limply into the Morris chair. "What's the matter?" said -Hy, observing him more closely. "You look done. Where's Sue?" Peter -composed himself. "I left Sue a long while ago. Hours ago." - -"What on earth have you been doing?" - -"Exactly what I promised you I'd do." - -This was a new, an impressive Peter. - -"I don't get you--" - -"You said Sue might not listen to my warning." - -"Oh--and she didn't?" - -"She did not." - -"And you--oh, you said you'd go to Zanin..." - -"As man to man, Hy." - -"Good lord, you haven't... Pete, you're limping! You didn't fight!..." - -Peter solemnly shook his head. "It wasn't necessary, Hy," he said -huskily; then cleared his throat. "What was the matter with his throat -to-day, anyway?" - -He sank back in his chair. His eyes closed. - -Hy leaned forward with some anxiety. "Pete, what's the matter? You're -white!" - -Peter's head moved slowly. "Nothing's the matter." He slowly opened his -eyes. "It has been a hard day, Hy, but the job is done." - -"The job...?" - -"I have saved her, Hy." - -"But the pictures?" - -"They will be taken under my direction." - -"And Silverstone?" - -"Silverstone is out. I control the company." He closed his eyes again -and breathed slowly and evenly in a deliberate effort to calm his -tumultuous nerves. "Well!" said Hy, big-eyed. "Well!" - -"Something to drink, Hy," Peter murmured. "I put it over, Hy! I put -it over!" He said this with a little more vigor, trying to talk -down certain sudden misgivings regarding six thin little books with -pasteboard covers that lay at the moment in the middle drawer of the -desk, next the wall. - -Hy got slowly to his feet; stood rubbing his head and staring down -in complete admiration at the apparently triumphant if unmistakably -exhausted Peter. - -"It's a queer time for them," Hy remarked, solemn himself now. "But in -this case cocktails are certainly indicated." - -He picked up the telephone. "John," he said to the night man below, -"some ice!" - -Then he shuffled to the closet, struck a match and found the shaker. - -In the amber fluid they pledged the success of The Nature Film Producing -Co., Inc., these Seventh-Story Men! Dwelling, the while, each in his own -thoughts, on the essential nobility of sacrificing one's self to save -another. - - - - -CHAPTER X--PETER THE MAGNIFICENT - -|IF she strikes you as a girl you'd like to kiss, I should say, as a -general principle--well, kiss her." - -Thus Hy Lowe, musingly, seated on the decrepit flat-top desk between the -two windows of the studio, swinging his legs. - -Peter Ericson Mann met this observation with contempt. "Right off, I -suppose! First time you meet her--just like that!" - -The expert waved his cigarette. "Sure. Kiss her." - -"She murmurs her thanks, doubtless." - -"Not at all. She hates you. Won't ever speak to you again." - -"Oh, really!" Peter was caustic. - -"She didn't think you were that sort; and won't for a minute permit you -to think she's that sort." - -"And then?" - -Another wave of the cigarette. "Slow down. Be kind to her. If she's a -cross old thing, forgive her. Let her see that you're a regular fellow, -even if you did start from third base instead of first. Above all, -keep cool. Avoid tragedy, scenes. Keep smiling. When she does swing -round--well, you've kissed her. There you are!" - -Peter surveyed his apartment mate with gloomy eyes. "Sue and Betty are -two very different girls," said he. - -"My son," replied Hy, "I am not discussing persons. I am enunciating a -principle. What may have passed between friend Betty and me has nothing -to do with it." He glanced at his watch. "Though I'll admit she is -expecting me around this evening. She doesn't hate me, Pete.... Funny -thing about Betty--she was telling me--there's a man up in her town -pestering her to death. Letters and telegrams. Wants to marry her. He -makes gas engines. Queer about these small-town fellows--they can't -understand a free-spirited woman. Imagine Betty cooped up like that!" - -"I'm not likely to be kissing Sue," growled Peter. - -"My son, you've as good as done it already. From your own admission. -Asked her to marry you. Right off, too--just like that! Can't you -see it's the same thing in principle--shock and reaction! She'd have -preferred the kiss of course--" - -"You don't know that?" - -"The trouble with you, Pete, is that you don't understand women. -According to your own story again, you startled her so that she left you -on a country road and walked ten miles alone rather than answer you. -I tell you, get a woman real angry at you just once, and she can't be -indifferent to you as long as she lives. Hate you--yes. Love you--yes. -Indifferent--no.... You've started something. Give her time." - -"Time!" snorted Peter. "Time!" He paced the long room; kicked the closet -door shut; gave the piano keys a savage bang. - -Hy watched Peter with growing concern. His eyes roved about the -smoke-dimmed, high-ceiled studio. They had lived well here--himself, -Peter and the Worm. Thanks to some unknown law of personality, they had -got on, this odd trio, through the years. Girls and women had drifted -into and out of their individual lives (for your New York bachelor does -not inhabit a vacuum)--but never before had the specter of marriage -stalked with disruptive import through these dingy rooms. - -"Look here, Pete," he said, "why be so dam' serious about it!" - -Peter paused in his pacing and stared at Hy.... "Serious!" He repeated -the word under his breath. His long face worked convulsively behind the -large horn-rimmed glasses (not spectacles) and their black ribbon. Then -abruptly he rushed into the bedroom and slammed the door behind him. - -Hy sighed, glanced out at the weather (it was April), picked up hat, -stick and gloves and sauntered forth to dine comfortably at his club as -a ritualistic preliminary to a pleasant evening. That, he thought -now, was the great thing about bachelor life in town. You had all the -advantages of feminine companionship--in assorted varieties--and then -when you preferred or if the ladies bored you you just went to the club. - -Peter sat on the edge of the bed, all nerves, and thought about Sue -Wilde. Also about six little bank books. - -They had been his secret inner life, the bank books locked away in -the middle drawer of the desk on the side next the wall. Nearly seven -thousand dollars were now entered in those books--Peter's all. He -was staking it on a single throw. He had rushed in where a shrewder -theatrical angel might well have feared to tread. It was the wild -outbreak of a cautious impractical man. - -He thought it all over, sitting there on the edge of the bed. It was -terrifying, but stirring. In his plays some one was always saving a girl -through an act of personal sacrifice. Now he was acting it out in life. -Indicating the truth to life of his plays.... He was risking all. But -so had Napoleon, returning from Elba, risked all (he did not pursue the -analogy). So had Henry V at Agincourt. After all, considered in this -light, it was rather fine. Certain persons would admire him if they -knew. It was the way big men did things. He was glad that Sue didn't -know; it was finer to take the plunge without so much as asking a -return. It was magnificent. - -The word, popping into his thoughts, gave Peter a thrill. Yes, it was -magnificent. He was doing a magnificent thing. All that remained was to -carry it off magnificently. - -He dragged his trunk from the closet. The lower tray and the bottom were -packed with photographs and with letters tied in flat bundles--letters -in various feminine hands. He stirred the bundles about. Some were -old--years old; others less so. - -Peter regarded them with the detachment of exaltation. They could not -possibly mean anything to him; his life had begun the day he first saw -Sue Wilde. - -He carried them into the studio, great armsful, and piled them about -the hearth. In the bottom drawer of the bureau were other packets of -intimate documents. He brought those as well. Then he set to work to -burn, packet by packet, that curiously remote past life of his. And he -smiled a little at this memory and that. - -Closely packed papers do not burn easily. He was seated there on the -floor before the fireplace, stirring up sheets at which the flames had -nibbled, when Jacob Zanin came in. - -Zanin stared and laughed. - -"Bad as that?" said he. - -Peter met this sally with dignified silence. He urged his caller to sit -down. - -Zanin dropped his hat on the desk and disposed his big frame in the -Morris chair. His coat was wrinkled, his trousers baggy. Under his coat -was an old gray sweater. The head above the sweater collar was big and -well-poised. The face was hard and strong; the eyes were alight with -restlessness. - -"I'm dog tired," said Zanin. "Been rehearsing six hours straight." And -he added: "I suppose you haven't had a chance to go over my scenario." - -"I've done more than that," replied Peter calmly; "I've written a new -one." And as Zanin's brows came down questioningly he added: "I think -you'll find I've pointed up your ideas. The thing was very strong. -Once I got to thinking about it I couldn't let go. What it needed was -clarifying and rearranging and building for climaxes. That's what makes -it so hard for our people to understand you Russians--you are formless, -chaotic." - -"Like life," said Zanin. - -"Perhaps. But not like our stage traditions. You wanted me to help you -reach a popular audience. That's what I'm trying to do for you." - -"Fine!" said Zanin doubtfully. "Let me take it along. I'll read it -to-night--go over it with Sue, perhaps." - -Peter shook his head. - -"But I'll have to see it, Mann." - -"I'll read it to you--to you and Sue," said Peter. - -Zanin looked at him, faintly surprised and thinking. - -Peter went back to the hearth, dropped on his knees and threw another -bundle of letters into the fire. - -"The fact is," said Zanin, hesitating, "I had some work planned for Sue -this evening." - -"No hurry," remarked Peter. - -"Ah, but there is." Zanin hitched forward in his chair. The eager -hardness came again into his eyes. His strong, slightly husky voice rose -a little. - -"Why? How so?" Peter settled back on his heels and poked the fire. - -"Look here, Mann--everything's just right for us now. I've interested -the Interstellar people---that's partly what I came to say--they'll -supply studio stuff for the interior scenes and a camera man. Also -they'll stand a third of the expense. They're ready to sign whenever you -are. And what's more important--well, here's the question of Sue." - -"What's the question?" - -"It's delicate--but I'll be frank." - -"Better be. You and I are going into this as business men, Zanin." - -"Exactly. As business men. Well--Sue's a girl, after all. In this thing -we are staking a lot on her interest and enthusiasm--pretty nearly -everything." - -"Of course. - -"Well, she's ready--eager. I know her pretty thoroughly, Mann. I've -studied her. We have no real hold on her. She isn't a professional -actress, to be hired at so much a week. Her only reason for going into -it at all, is that she believes, with you and me, that the thing ought -to be done. Now that's all right. It's fine! But it's going to take -delicate handling. A girl acts as she feels, you know. Right now Sue -feels like doing my Nature film with all her might." He spread out his -hands. In his eyes was an eager appeal. "God, Maun, that's all we've -got! Don't you see? Just Sue's feelings!" - -"I see," Peter replied. He threw the last heap of photographs on the -fire. "But what was the frank thing?" - -Zanin hesitated; drummed nervously on the chair-arm. "I'm coming to -that. It's a bit awkward, Mann. It's--well, I am more or less in Sue's -confidence, you know. I'm with her so much, I can sense her moods.... -The fact is, Mann, if you'll let me say so, you don't seem to understand -women." - -"So I've been told," remarked Peter dryly. "Go on with it." - -"Well, Sue's got it into her head that you don't get the idea of -intelligent radicalism. That you're... - -"That I'm a reactionary." - -"Yes--that you're a reactionary. She's worried about the -scenario--afraid you'll miss the very point of it." Again he spread out -his large strong hands. "So don't you see why I'm eager to get hold of -it and read it to her"--he hesitated again, and knit his brows--"so I -can reassure her... You see, Mann, Sue just doesn't like you. That's the -plain fact. You've hit her all wrong." He raised a hand to ward off -Peter's interruption. "Oh, we'll straighten that out all right! But -it'll take delicate handling--just now, while we're working out the -scenario and planning the trip south--and so, meantime..." - -"You would like me to keep out of Sue's way as much as possible." - -"And leave everything to me, Mann. As it stands now, here she is, keen, -all ready, once she's solid in her mind about the right spirit of the -scenario, to start south with me..." - -Peter waved the poker in a series of small circles and figure eights; -then held it motionless and sighted along it with squinted-up eyes. - -"Why go south?" he asked. - -Zanin gave a start and stared at him; then controlled himself, for the -expenses of that little trip, two-thirds of them, at least, must be paid -out of the funds entered in Peter's six little bank books. - -"Why go south?" Zanin repeated, gropingly; then came back at Peter with -a rush of words. "Good lord, Mann, don't you see that we're putting over -a big piece of symbolism--the most delicate and difficult job on earth. -This isn't _Shore Acres!_ It isn't the _Doll's House!_ It's a realized -dream, and it's got to be put across with such quality and power that it -will fire a new dream in the public mind. I propose to spring right out -at 'em, startle 'em--yes, shock 'em; and all the time keep it where -they can't lay their vulgar hands on it. We can't show our Nature -effects--primitive, half-nude people--against a background of a New -Jersey farm land with a chestnut tree and a couple of oaks in the middle -distance!" - -"Pretty fine trees, those!" observed Peter. - -"Not for a minute!" Zanin sprang to his feet; his voice rang. "Got to -be remote, exotic--dream quality, fantasy all through. Florida or -California--palm trees and such. Damn it, the thing's a poem! It's got -to be done as a poem." - -He strode down the room and back. - -Peter got up, very calm, rather white about the mouth and watched -him.... Dream quality? His thoughts were woven through and through with -it at this moment. A voice at his inner ear, a voice curiously like -Hy's, was murmuring over and over: "Sure! Kiss her." - -"Don't you see?" cried Zanin, confronting him, and spreading out those -big hands. Peter wished wildly that he would keep them in his pockets, -put them behind his back--anything to get them out of sight!... "Lets be -sensible, Maun. As you said, we're business men, you and I. You let me -take the scenario. I'm to see Sue this evening--I'll read it to her. -I'm sure it's good. It'll reassure her. And it will help me to hold her -enthusiasm and pave the way for a better understanding between her and -you." - -Quite unforeseen by either, the little matter of reading the scenario -had struck up an issue between them. All was not harmony within the -directorate of The Nature Film Producing Co., Inc., Jacob Zanin, Pres't. - -"No," said Peter. "I won't let you have it now." - -"But--good lord!--" - -"I will think it over." - -Magnificent was the word. Zanin gulped down a temperamental explosion -and left. - -Peter, as he came slowly back from the elevator to the apartment, -discovered that he still held the poker tightly in his right hand, like -a sword. He thought again of Napoleon and Henry V. - -He stood motionless, by the window, staring out; moved by the histrionic -emotionalism that was almost his soul to stiffen his shoulders like a -king's. Out there--beyond old Washington Square where the first buds of -spring tipped the trees--beyond the glimpse, down a red-brick vista of -the Sixth Avenue Elevated--still beyond and on, were, he knew, the dusty -wandering streets, the crumbling houses with pasts, the flimsy apartment -buildings decorated in front with rococo fire escapes, the bleak little -three-cornered parks, the devastating subway excavations of Greenwich -Village. Somewhere in that welter of poverty and art, at this very -moment (unless she had walked up-town) was Sue Wilde. He tried to -imagine just where. Perhaps in the dim little rear apartment she shared -with Betty Deane, waiting for Zarin. - -His gaze wandered down to the Square. There was Zanin, crossing it, -under the bare trees. - -His grip on the poker relaxed. He moved toward the telephone; glanced -out again at the swift-striding Zanin; then with dignity, replaced the -poker by the fireplace, consulted the telephone book and called up Sue's -apartment. - -Sue herself answered. - -"This is Eric Mann," he told her. "I want very much to talk with -you"--his voice was none too steady--"about the scenario." - -"Well"--over the wire he could feel her hesitation--"if it is -important...." - -"I think it is." - -"Any time, almost, then... - -"Are you busy now?" - -"Why--no." - -"Perhaps you'd dine with me." - -"Why--all right. At Jim's, say." - -The color came rushing to Peter's face. - -"Right away?" he suggested, controlling his voice. "All right. I'll meet -you there." - -Peter hung up the receiver and smiled. So Zanin was to see Sue this -evening, was he? "He'll need a telescope," mused Peter with savage joy -as he hurried out. - - - - -CHAPTER XI--PROPINQUITY-PLUS - -|HE caught up with her at the corner nearest Jim's--the same Sue he had -first met, here in the Village, on a curbstone, eating an apple--wearing -her old tarn o'shanter; good shoulders, no hips, well-shaped hands and -feet; odd, honest deep-green eyes. - -She was a wreck from endless rehearsing she told him smilingly and -ordered a big English chop and a bigger baked potato. These were good at -Jim's. She ate them like a hungry boy. - -He offered her with inner hesitation, a cigarette. She shook her head. -"Zanin won't let me," she explained. "He says it's going to be a big -hard job, coming right on top of all the work at the Crossroads, and I -must keep fit." - -"Zanin! Zanin!..." But Peter maintained his studied calm. "I've got the -scenario in my pocket," he announced, "I want to read it to you. And if -you don't mind I'll tell you just why I want to." - -"Of course I don't mind," said she, with just one half-covert glance. -"Tell me." - -"Please hear me out," said he. - -Her lids did droop a little now. This was the Eric Mann whose plays she -had seen in past years and who had pounced on her so suddenly with a -crazy avowal of love.... A man she hardly knew! - -He spoke quietly now and patiently; even with dignity. - -"We--you and Zanin and I--are starting a serious job." - -"Yes, I know." - -"Well, I began all wrong by taking a personal attitude toward you, and -we quarreled rather absurdly..." - -"We won't speak of that," said she. - -"Only to this extent: Any little personal misunderstandings--well, we've -got to be businesslike and frank.... I'll tell you. This afternoon--just -now, in fact--when I suggested to Zanin that I read it to the two of -you, he objected. In fact he told me in so many words that you disliked -me and didn't trust my understanding and that it would be necessary for -him to act as a buffer between you and me." - -"Oh," said she quickly, "that's absurd, of course!" - -"Of course. He rather insisted on taking the scenario and reading it to -you himself. Now that won't do." - -"I don't care who reads it to me," said Sue coolly. - -"Certainly not. Now, if you'll agree with me that there's nothing -personal between us, that we're just whole-hearted workmen on a job, I..." - -She raised her eyebrows a little, waking. - -"...I came here with the idea of asking you to hunt Zanin up with -me--making it a matter of company business, right now." - -"Oh," said she, her independent spirt stirred, "I don't see that that's -necessary. Why don't you go ahead--just read it to me?" She looked about -the smoky busy room. "But it's noisy here. And people you know come in -and want to talk. I'd ask you around to the rooms, only..." - -"Only, Hy Lowe will be there." Peter, feeling new ground under his feet, -smiled. - -Sue smiled a little herself. - -"How about your place?" she asked them. - -The question took Peter's breath. She said it in unmistakable good -faith, like a man. But never, never, in Peter's whole adult life, had a -woman said such a thing to him. That women came occasionally; into the -old bachelor apartment building, he knew. But the implications! What -would Hamer-ton, across the hall, think of him were he to meet them -together in the elevator? What would John the night man think? Above all -(this thought came second) what would they think of Sue? - -"Oh," observed Sue, with real good humor, "I remember! That's the -building where women callers can't stay after eleven at night." - -Peter nearly succeeded in fighting back the flush that came. - -"Which," Sue continued, "has always seemed to me the final comment on -conventional morality. It's the best bit of perfectly unconscious humor -in New York." - -Peter was thinking--in flashes and leaps, like Napoleon--startled by -his own daring, yet athrill with new determination. The Worm was out of -town; Hy very much engaged.... Besides, Sue was honest and right. -This was the sincere note in the New Russianism. Being yourself, -straight-out. He must rise to it, now or never, if he was not to lose -Sue for good. - -So he smiled. "It's only eight," he said. "I can read you the whole -thing and we can discuss it within a couple of hours. And we won't be -interrupted there." - -Walking straight into that building with Sue at his side, nodding with -his usual casual friendliness to John the night man, chatting while the -elevator crawled endlessly upward to the seventh floor, overcoming the -impulse to run past the doors of the other apartments, carrying it all -off with easy sophistication; this was unquestionably the bravest single -act in the whole life of Peter Ericson Mann. - -Peter could be a pleasant host. He lighted the old gas-burning student -lamp on the desk; started a fire; threw all the cushions in one large -pile on the couch. - -Sue threw aside her coat and tarn o'shanter, smoothed her hair a little, -then curled up on the couch with her feet under her where she could -watch the fire; and where (as it happened) the firelight played softly -on her alert face. She filled the dingy old room with a new and very -human warmth. - -Peter settled back in the Morris chair and after one long look at her -plunged with a sudden fever of energy into the reading of the scenario. - -It was the thing Peter did best. He read rapidly; moved forward in his -chair and gestured now and then for emphasis with his long hands; threw -more than a little sense of movement and power into it. - -Sue listened rather idly at first; then, as Peter's trained, nicely -modulated voice swept on, lifted her head, leaned forward, watched his -face. Peter felt her gaze but dared not return it. Once he stopped, -flushed and hoarse, and telephoned down for ice-water. Those eyes, all -alight, followed him as he rushed past her to the door and returned with -the clinking water pitcher. He snatched up the manuscript and finished -it--nearly half an hour of it--standing. Then he threw it on the desk -with a noise that made Sue jump, and himself strode to the fireplace and -stood there, mopping his face, still avoiding her eyes. She was still -leaning eagerly forward. - -"Well," said he now, with a rather weak effort at casualness, "what do -you think of it? Of course it's a rough draft--" - -"Of course it is no such thing," said she. - -She got up; moved to the table: took up the manuscript and turned the -first pages. Then she came to the other side of the hearth with it, -"What I want to know is--How did you do it?" - -"Oh, it's Zanin's ideas, of course; but they needed rearranging and -pointing up." - -"This isn't a rearrangement," said she; and now he awoke to -consciousness of the suppressed stirring quality in her voice, a quality -he had not heard in it before. "It isn't a rearrangement. It's a created -thing." - -"Oh," he cried, "you really think that!" - -"It carries the big idea. It's the very spirit of freedom. It's a--a -sort of battle-cry--" She gave a little laugh--"Of course it isn't -that, exactly; it's really a big vital drama. I'm talking rather wildly. -But--" She confronted him; he looked past her hair at the wall. She -stamped her foot. "Don't make me go on saying these inane things, -please! You know as well as I do what you've done." - -"What have I done?" - -"You've stated our faith with a force and a fineness that Zanin, even, -could never get. You've said it all for us.... Oh, I owe you an apology! -Zanin told you part of the truth. I didn't dream--from your plays and -things you have said--that you could do this." - -Peter looked at her now with breathless solemnity. "I've changed," he -said. - -"Something has happened." - -"I'm not ashamed of changing." - -She smiled. - -"Or of growing, even." - -"Of course not," said she. "But listen! You don't know what you've done. -Do you suppose I've been looking forward to this job--making myself -sensationally conspicuous, working with commercial-minded people? Oh, -how I've dreaded that side of it! And worrying all the time because the -scenario wasn't good. It just wasn't. It wasn't real people, feeling and -living; it was ideas--nothing but ideas--stalking around. That's Zanin, -of course. He's a big man, he has got the ideas, but he hasn't got -_people_, quite; he just doesn't understand women,... Don't you see," -she threw out her hands--"the only reason, the only excuse, really, -for going through with this ordeal is to help make people everywhere -understand Truth. And I've known--it's been discouraging--that we -couldn't possibly do that unless it was clearly expressed for us.... Now -do you see what you've done? It's _that!_ And it's pretty exciting." - -"Zanin may not take it this way." - -"Oh, he will! He'll have to. It means so much to him. That man has lost -everything at the Crossroads, you know. And now he is staking all he -has left--his intelligence, his strength, his courage, on this. It means -literally everything to him." - -Peter stared at her. "And what do you suppose it means to me!" - -"Why--I don't know, of course..." - -Peter strode to the desk, unlocked the middle drawer next the wall, drew -out the six little bank books, and almost threw them into her lap. - -"Look at those," he said--"all of them!" - -"Why--" she hesitated. - -"Go through them, please! Add them up." - -Half smiling, she did so. Then said: "It seems to come to almost seven -thousand dollars." - -"That's the money that's going to work out your dream." - -She glanced up at him, then down at the books. - -"It's all I've got in the world--all--all! That, and the three per cent, -it brings in. My play--they're going to produce it in the fall. You -won't like it. It's the old ideas, the old Broadway stuff." - -"But you've changed." - -"Yes. Since I wrote it. It doesn't matter. It may bring money, it may -not. Likely not. Ninety per cent, of 'em fail, you know. This is all -I've got--every cent All my energy and what courage I've got goes after -it--into The Nature Film Producing Company. Please understand that! I'm -leading up to something." - -She looked a thought disturbed. He rushed on. - -"Zanin's got it into his head that he's going to take you south to do -all the outdoor scenes." - -"I haven't agreed to that. He feels that it's necessary." - -"Yes, he does. He's sincere enough. Remember, I'm talking impersonally. -As I told you, we've got to be businesslike--and frank. We've got to!" - -"Of course," said she. - -"I'm beginning to see that Zanin is just as much of a hero with other -people's money as he is with his own." - -"That goes with the temperament, I suppose." - -"Undoubtedly. But now, see! That trip south--taking actors and camera -man and outfit--staying around at hotels--railway fares--it will cost a -fortune." - -"Oh," said she, very grave, "I hadn't realized that." - -"If we can just keep our heads---more carefully--spend the money where -it will really show on the film--don't you see, we can swing it, and -when we've done it, it won't belong to the Interstellar people--or to -Silverstone; it'll be ours. And that means it'll be what we--you--want -it to be and not something vulgar and--and nasty. The other way, it we -give Zanin his head and begin spending money magnificently, we'll run -out, and then the price of a little more money, if we can get it at all, -will be, the control." - -Re reached down for the books, threw them back into the drawer, slammed -it and locked it. - -"Yes," he said, "that's all I've got. I pledge it all, here and now, -to the dream you've dreamed. All I ask is, keep in mind what may happen -when it's gone." - -She rose now; stood thinking; then drew on her lam o'shanter and reached -for her coat. - -"Let me think this over," she said soberly. - -"We must be businesslike," said he. "Impersonal." - -"Yes," said she, and stepped over to the fire, low-burning now with a -mass of red coals. - -Peter's eyes, deep, gloomy behind the big glasses, followed her. He came -slowly and stood by her. - -"I must go," she said gently. "It'll he eleven first thing we known It -would be a bit too amusing to be put out." - -They lingered. - -Then Peter found himself lifting his arms. He tried to keep them down, -but up, up they came--very slowly, he thought. - -He caught her shoulders, swung her around, drew her close. It seemed to -him afterward, during one of the thousand efforts he made to construct -a mental picture of the scene, that she must have been resisting him and -that he must have been using his strength; but if this was so it made no -difference. Her head was in the hollow' of his arm. He bent down, drew -her head up, kissed, as it happened, her nose; forced her face about and -at the second effort kissed her lips. If she was struggling--and Peter -will never be quite clear on that point--she was unable to resist him. -He kissed her again. And then again. A triumphant fury was upon him. - -But suddenly it passed. He almost pushed her away from him; left her -standing, limp and breathless, by the mantel, while he threw himself on -the couch and plunged his face into his hands. - -"You'll hate me," he groaned. "You won't ever speak to me again. You'll -think I'm that sort of man, and you'll be right in thinking so. What's -worse, you'll believe I thought you were the sort to let me do it. And -all the time I love you more than--Oh God, what made me do it! What -could I have been thinking of! I was mad!" - -Then the room was still. - - - - -CHAPTER XII--THE MOMENT AFTER - -|PETER tried to think. He could not lie there indefinitely with his face -in his hands. But he couldn't think. His mind had stopped running.... -At last he must face her. He remembered Napoleon. Slowly he lifted his -head; got up. - -She had seated herself on an arm of the Morris chair, taken off her tarn -o'shanter and was running her fingers through her rumpled short hair. -She did not look at him. After a moment she put the tam o'shanter on -again, but did not instantly get up; instead, reached out and drew the -manuscript toward her. - -Peter stood over the fire. - -"Is it any good saying I'm sorry," he began... "Please don't talk about -it," said she. - -There was a long silence. Peter, helpless, tried and tried to think.... -hy had brought him to this. In his heart he cursed Hy. - -"I've been thinking," said Sue, fingering the manuscript; then suddenly -turning and facing him--"you and I can't do this sort of thing." - -"Oh, of course not," he cried eagerly. - -"If there's going to be emotional tension between us, why---it's going -to Be hard to do the work." She took the manuscript up now and looked -thoughtfully from page to page. "As I see the situation--if I see it at -all--it's like this: You have solved our problem. Splendidly. There's -our play. Like the rest of us, you are giving all you have. We've got to -work hard. More, we've got to cooperate, very finely and earnestly. But -we've got to be IMpersonal, businesslike. We've simply _got_ to." - -"I know it," said he ruefully. - -"So, if our wires--yours and mine--are going to get crossed like--like -this, well, you and I just mustn't see each other, that's all." - -"Of course," said he. - -"It's too bad. When you were reading the scenario, and I saw what -power and life you have put into it, I thought it would be particularly -interesting to have you coach me. You could help me so. But it is -something, at least--" she threw out her arms again with the gesture -that he was sure he would associate with her as long as he lived--as -he would remember the picture she made, seated there on an arm of the -Morris chair, in his rooms.... - -His rooms! How often in his plays had he based his big scene on Her -visit to His Rooms! And how very, very different all those scenes had -been from this. He was bewildered, trying to follow her extraordinarily -calm survey of the situation. - -She was talking on. "--it is something at least to know that you have -been able to do this for us." - -She slipped off the arm of the chair now and stood before him--flushed, -but calm enough--and extended her hand. - -"The best way, I think," she said, "is for you not to see much of me -just now. That won't interfere with work at rehearsals, of course. If -there's something you want to tell me about the part, you can drop me a -line or call me up." - -Peter took her hand, clasped it for a moment, let it fall. - -She moved deliberately to the door. He followed her. - -"But--" said Peter huskily--"but, wouldn't I better walk home with you?" - -"No," said she, momentarily compressing her lips. "No! Better not! The -time to start being businesslike is right now. Don't you see?" - -"Yes," he murmured. "You are right, of course." The telephone bell rang. - -"Just a moment," said Peter. - -And Sue waited, by the door. - -Peter took up the receiver. She heard him stammer-- - -"Oh--oh, all right--eleven o'clock--all right." - -"There," said she, laughing a little. "It has happened, you see! I'm -being put out." - -"I'm awfully sorry, Sue." - -"Oh, that doesn't matter! It's just amusing." - -"But I wouldn't have had it happen----" - -His voice trailed off. - -"Good night," said she again. - -"Good night, Sue. You are treating me better than I deserve." - -"We won't talk any more about it. Good night." She tried to turn the -catch on the lock. He reached out to help. His hand closed over hers. He -turned; his eyes met hers; he took her in his arms again. - -They moved slowly back toward the fire. "Peter--please!" she murmured. -"It won't do." - -"Oh, Sue--Sue!" he groaned. "If we feel this way, why not marry and make -a good job of it?" - -Peter said this as she might have said it--all directness, -matter-of-fact. "I wouldn't stop you, Sue. I wouldn't ever dominate you -or take you for granted. I'd live for you, Sue." - -"I know." She caught her breath and moved away from him. "You wouldn't -stop me, but marriage and life would. No, Peter; not now. Marriage isn't -on my calendar.... And, Peter, please don't make love to me. I don't -want you to." - -Peter moved away, too, at this. - -"Look here, Sue," he said, after a moment's thought, rather roughly, -"you go. We won't shake hands again. Just go. Right now. I promise I -won't bother you. And we--we'll put the play through--put it through -right." - -Her eyes were on his again, with a light in them. - -A slow smile was coming to the corners of her mouth. - -"Oh, Peter," she said very gently, "don't you--when you say that--you -make me--" - -"Please--please go!" cried Peter. - -The telephone rang. - -"I'll think over the matter of the trip south," said she, "and--" - -"Sue, I want you to go!" - -"--and let you know". I'm not sure but what you're right. If we _can_ do -it up here...." - -"Good God, Sue! Please! Please!" - -She moved slowly toward the door, turned the catch herself, then glanced -hesitatingly back. - -Peter was standing rigidly before the fire, staring into it. He had -picked up the poker and was holding it stiffly in his right hand. - -She did not know that the man standing there was not Peter at all, but -a very famous personage, shorter than Peter, and stouter, whose name had -rung resoundingly down the slope of a hundred years. - -He would not turn. So she went out. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII--TWO GIRLS OF THE VILLAGE - -|IT is not a simple matter to record in any detail the violent emotional -reaction through which Peter now passed. Peter had the gift of creative -imagination, the egotism to drive it far, and, for background, the -character of a theatrical chameleon. Of these qualities, I have always -believed that the egotism predominated. He could appear dignified, even -distinguished; he could also appear excitable, ungoverned. Either would -be Peter. - -Nothing that had happened hitherto in his life had excited him as had -the events of this evening. The excitement was, indeed, greater than he -could bear. It set his imagination blazing, and there was among Peter's -intricate emotional processes no hose of common sense adequate to the -task of subduing the flames. He stood, breathless, quivering, at the -window, looking out over the dim Square, exulting to the point of -nervous exhaustion. He walked the floor. He laughed aloud. Finally, his -spirit went on around the emotional circle through a high point of -crazy happiness to an equally crazy despondency. More time passed. The -despondency deepened. She had made stipulations. He was not to see her -again. If it should be necessary to communicate, he was to write. She -had been kind about it, but that was what she had said. Yes, she had -been kind, but her reaction would come as his had. She would hate him. -Necessarily. Hy was to that extent right. - -He sat on the couch (where she had sat), held the paper in shaking hands -and stared wildly into the dying fire. Thoughts, pictures, were now -racing through his mind, in a mad tangle, hopelessly confused. One -notion he laid hold of as it went by... She had been his guest--here -in his rooms. She had trusted herself with him. He had violated the -trust. If he permitted a man to do such a thing in one of his plays, -it would be for the purpose of exhibiting that man as a cad at -least--probably as a villain. The inference was clear. Any audience that -Peter was capable of mentally projecting would instantly, automatically, -accept him as such. Peter himself knew no other attitude. And now to -find himself guilty of this very act brought the final bewilderment. - -So he, Peter, was a cad at least--perhaps a villain. - -And then, at the lowest ebb of his reaction, his imagination set to work -building up grotesque plans for a new different life. All these plans -were out of the conventional stuff of his plays; all were theatrical. -They had to do with self-effacement and sacrifice, with expiation, with -true nobility. There was a moment when he considered self-destruction. -If you think this wholly fantastic, I can only say that it was Peter. -Another notion was of turning explorer, becoming a world's rough hand, -of meeting hardship and privation. He pictured himself writing Sue manly -letters, once a year, say. He would live then in her memory not as a cad -or villain, but (perhaps) as a man who had been broken by a great love. -Then, in reminiscent moments, as when she saw a log fire burning low, -she would think tenderly of him. She might even sigh.... And he tried to -think out acceptable devices for leaving his money in her hands. For he -must see the Nature Film through. - -He had just finished deciding this when Hy Lowe came. - -Had Peter been less preoccupied, he would have noted that Hy was -unusually silent. As it was, conscious only that the atmosphere of -magical melancholy had been shattered when the door opened, -Peter undressed, put out the gas lamp and went to bed, his bed being -the very couch on which she had curled up while he read the scenario. -He knew that sleep would be impossible, but he felt that he should make -every possible effort to control himself. Hy was fussing about in the -bedroom. - -After a while--a long while--he heard Hy come tiptoeing into the room -and stand motionless. - -"What the devil do you want!" cried Peter, starting up, all nerves. - -"Just wanted to make sure you weren't asleep." And Hy chuckled -breathlessly. - -"Quit your cackling! What do you want?" - -"Let me sit down, Pete. Damn it. I've got to talk--to somebody. Pete, -I'm crazy. I'm delirious. Never mind what I say. Oh, my boy. My boy, you -don't know--you can't imagine!... She's the darling of the gods, Peter! -The absolute darling of the absolute gods!" - -"Is that any reason why you should come driveling all over my room at -this time of night?" - -"Wait, Pete--serious now. You've got to stand by me in this. The way -I've stood by you once or twice. To-day was Friday, wasn't it? Or am I -crazy?" - -"Both." - -"Then it's to-morrow! I'm just trying to believe it, Pete, that's all." - -"Believe _what?_" - -"Look here--you've got to know, and protect me if any unexpected thing -should come up. We're going on a little trip, Peter." Hy was solemn now, -but his voice was uncertain. "Betty and I, Pete. To-morrow. On the night -boat." - -Peter was silent. Hy stood there for what seemed rather a long time, -then suddenly bolted back into the bedroom. In the morning he was less -expansive, merely asking Peter to respect his confidence. Which request -Peter gloomily resented as he resented Hy's luck. The fortunate young -man then packed a hand-bag and hurried off to breakfast at the club. - -Peter tried to work on an empty stomach, but the effort gave him a -headache, so he made himself a cup of coffee. - -He walked the streets for a while with increasing restlessness; then, to -soothe his nerves, went to the club and listlessly read the magazines. -At noon he avoided his friends, but managed to eat a small luncheon. At -two o'clock he went out aimlessly and entered the nearest moving-picture -theater. At five he wandered back to the club and furtively asked the -telephone boy if there' had been any messages for him. There had not. - -He permitted himself to be drawn into a riotous game of Kelly pool. Also -he permitted himself a drink or two. - -During the evening, I regret to note, he got himself rather drunk and -went home in a taxicab. This was unusual with Peter and not successful. -It intensified his self-consciousness and his sorrow, made him even -gloomier. But it did help him to sleep. - -He was awakened, just before nine o'clock on Sunday morning, by the -banging of a door. Then Hy, dusty, bedraggled, haggard of face, rushed -in and stared at him. - -Peter decided it was a dream and rolled over. - -Hy shook him. "For God's sake, Pete!" he cried. How hoarse he was! -"Where is she? Have you heard anything?" - -Peter was coming awake. - -"God, Pete, I'm crazy! Don't you understand--She wasn't on the boat. -Must have got the wrong one. Oh, it's awful!... I walked that deck -nearly all night--got off way up the river and came back to New York -with the milk cans. Something terrible may have happened." - -Peter sat up. - -"It seems to me," he said, rubbing his tousled head, "that I remember -something--last night--" - -Hy waited, panting. - -"Look on the desk. Didn't I bring up a note or something and lay it -there?" - -Hy was on the desk like a panther. There was a note. He tore it open, -then thrust it into Peter's hands, crying hoarsely, "Read it!"--and -dropped, a limp, dirt-streaked wreck of a man, into the Morris chair. - -This was the note: - -"_Henry, I'm not going. I hope this reaches you in time. Please -understand--forgive if you can. You won't see me again. B._" - -Peter read it again, thoughtfully; then looked up. His own -none-too-clear eyes met Hy's distinctly bloodshot ones. - -"And what do you think of that!" cried Hy. "What do you think of -that!... Damn women, anyway! They don't play the game. They're not -square."... He was clenching and unclenching his hands. Suddenly he -reached for the telephone. - -But just as his hand closed on it, the bell rang. - -Hy snatched up the receiver. "Yes!" he cried shortly--"Yes! Yes! He -lives here. Wait a moment, please. It's for you, Fete." - -Peter sprang out of bed and hurried to the instrument. - -"Yes," said he, "this is Mr. Mann." - -"Peter, it's Sue--Sue Wilde." - -"Oh--hello! I was going to call up myself in a few minutes. How have you -been?" - -"Not awfully fit. This constant rehearsing seems to be on my nerves, or -something." - -There was a pause. Hy went off into the bedroom to get out of his -travel-stained clothes. - -"I wanted to say, Peter--I've been thinking it all over--" - -Peter braced himself. - -"--and I've come to the conclusion that you are right about that -southern trip. It really isn't necessary." - -"I'm glad you feel that way." - -"I do. And we must make Zanin see it as we do." - -"We'll try." - -Another pause. Then this from Peter-- - -"Busy to-day?" - -"I ought to be. Are you?" - -"No. Can't work. Wish we could do something." - -"I'd like some air--to get away from the streets and that stuffy -theater. What could we do?" - -"I'll tell you what you need, child--just the thing! We'll run down to -one of the beaches and tramp. Pick up lunch anywhere. What do you say?" - -"I'll do it, Peter. Call for me, will you?... And oh, Peter, here's an -odd thing! Betty packed up yesterday while I was out and went home. Just -left a note. She has run away--given up. Going to marry a man in her -town. He makes gas engines." - -Peter started the coffee machine, smiling as he worked. A sense of deep -utter calm was flowing into his harassed spirit, pervading it. - -He went into the bedroom and gazed with tolerant concern at the downcast -Hy. - -"The trouble with you, my boy," he began, then paused. - -"What's the trouble with me?" growled Hy. - -"The trouble with you, my boy, is that you don't understand women." - - - - -CHAPTER XIV--THE WORM TURNS FROM BOOKS TO LIFE - -|THE Worm worked hard all of this particular day at the Public Library, -up at Forty-second Street and Fifth Avenue. At five o'clock he came -out, paused on the vast incline of marble steps to consider the spraying -fountains of pale green foliage on the terraces (it was late April) -and the brilliant thronging avenue and decided not to ride down to -Washington Square on an autobus, but to save the ten cents and walk. -Which is how he came to meet Sue Wilde. - -She was moving slowly along with the stream of pedestrians, her old coat -open, her big tarn o'shanter hanging down behind her head and framing -her face in color. The face itself, usually vital, was pale. - -She turned and walked with him. She was loafing, she said listlessly, -watching the crowds and trying to think. And she added: "It helps." - -"Helps?" - -"Just feeling them crowding around--I don't know; it seems to keep you -from forgetting that everybody else has problems." - -Then she closed her lips on this bit of self-revelation. They walked a -little way in silence. - -"Listen!" said she. "What are you doing?" - -"Half an hour's work at home clearing up my notes, then nothing. -Thinking of dinner?" - -She nodded. - -"I'll meet you. Wherever you say." - -"At the Muscovy, then. By seven." - -She stopped as if to turn away, hesitated, lingered, gazing out with -sober eyes at the confusion of limousines, touring cars and taxis that -rolled endlessly by, with here and there a high green bus lumbering -above all the traffic. "Maybe we can have another of our talks, Henry," -she said. "I hope so. I need it--or something." - -"Sue," said he, "you're working too hard." - -She considered this, shook her head, turned abruptly away. - -When he reached the old bachelor rookery in the Square he did not enter, -but walked twice around the block, thinking about Sue. It had disturbed -him to see that tired look in her odd deep-green eyes. Sue had been -vivid, striking, straightforward; fired with a finely honest revolt -against the sham life into an observance of which nearly all of us, soon -or late, get beaten down. He didn't want to see Sue beaten down like the -rest. - -It was pleasant that she, too, had felt deeply about their friendship. -This thought brought a thrill of the sort that had to be put down -quickly; for nothing could have been plainer than, that he stirred no -thrill in Sue. No, he was not in the running there. He lived in -books, the Worm; and he reflected with a rather unaccustomed touch of -bitterness that books are pale things. - -Peter, now--he had seemed lately to be in the running. - -But it hardly seemed that Peter could be the one who had brought -problems into Sue's life.... Jacob Zanin--there was another story! He -was in the running decidedly. In that odd frank way of hers, Sue had -given the Worm glimpses of this relationship. - -He rounded the block a third time--a fourth--a fifth. - -When he entered the apartment Peter was there, in the studio, -telephoning. To a girl, unquestionably. You could always tell, -"You aren't fair to me. You throw me aside without a word of -explanation." - -Thus Peter; his voice, pitched a little high, near to breaking with -emotion; as if he were pleading with the one girl in the world--though, -to be fair to Peter, she almost always was. - -The Worm stepped into the bedroom, making as much noise as possible. But -Peter talked on. - -"Yes, you are taking exactly that position. As you know, I share your -interest in freedom--but freedom without fairness or decent human -consideration or even respect for one's word, comes down to selfish -caprice. Yes, selfish caprice!" - -The Worm picked up a chair and banged it against the door-post. But even -this failed to stop Peter. - -"Oh, no, my dear, of course I didn't mean that. I didn't know what I was -saying. You can't imagine how I have looked forward to seeing you this -evening. The thought of it has been with me all through this hard, hard -day. I know my nerves are a wreck. I'm all out of tune. But everything -seems to have landed on me at once..." - -Finding the chair useless as a warning, the Worm sat upon it, made a wry -face, folded his arms. - -"... I've got to go away. You knew that, dear. This was my last chance to -see you for weeks--and yet you speak of seeing me any time. It hurts, -little girl. It just plain hurts to be put off like that. It doesn't -seem like us." - -The Worm wondered, rather casually, to how many girls Peter had talked -in this way during the past three years--stage girls, shop girls--the -pretty little Irish one, from the glove counter up-town; and that young -marred person on the upper West Side of whom Peter had been unable -to resist bragging a little; and Maria Tonifetti, manicurist at the -sanitary barber shop of Marius; and--oh, yes, and Grace Herring. Only -last year. The actress. She played Lena in Peter's _The Buzzard_, -and later made a small sensation in _The Gold Heart_. That affair had -looked, for several months, like the real thing. The Worm recalled one -tragic night, all of which, until breakfast rime, he had passed in that -very studio talking Peter out of suicide. - -He wondered who this new girl could be. Was it Sue, by any chance? Were -they that far along? - -The Worm got up with some impatience and went in there--just as Peter -angrily slammed the receiver on its hook. - -"I hear you're going away," the Worm observed - -Peter swung around and peered through his big glasses. He made a visible -effort to compose himself. - -"Oh," he said, "hello! What's that? Yes, I'm leaving to-morrow -afternoon. Neuerman is going to put _The Truffler_ on the road for a -few; weeks this spring to try out the cast." - -The Worm regarded him thoughtfully. "Look here, Pete," said he, "it -isn't my fault that God gave me ears. I heard your little love scene." - -Peter looked blankly at him; then his face twisted convulsively and he -buried his face in his hands. - -"Oh, Henry!" he groaned. "It's awful. I'm in love, man!" His voice was -really trembling. "It's got me at last--the real thing. I must tell -somebody--it's racking me to pieces--I can't work, can't sleep. It's Sue -Wilde. I've asked her to marry me--she can't make up her mind. And now; -I've got to go away for weeks and leave things... Za-Zanin..." - -He sat up, stiffened his shoulders, bit his lip. The Worm feared he -was going to cry. But instead he sprang up, rushed from the room and, a -moment later, from the apartment. - -The Worm sat on a corner of the desk and looked after him, thought about -him, let his feelings rise a little.... Peter, even in his anger and -confusion, had managed to look unruffled, well-groomed. He always did. -No conceivable outburst of emotion could have made him forget to place -his coat on the hanger and crease his trousers carefully in the frame. -His various suits were well made. They fitted him. They represented -thought and money. His shoes--eight or nine pairs in all--were custom -made and looked it. His scarfs were of imported silk. His collars -came from England and cost forty cents each. His walking sticks had -distinction.... And Peter was successful with women. No doubt about -that. - -The Worm gazed down at himself. The old gray suit was; a shapeless -thing. The coat pockets bulged--note-book and wad of loose notes on one -side, a paper-bound volume in the Russian tongue on the other. He had -just one other suit. It hung from a hook in the closet, and he knew that -it, too, was shapeless. - -A clock, somewhere outside, struck seven. - -He started; stuffed his note-book and papers into a drawer; drew the -volume in Russian from his other pocket, made as if to lay it on the -table, then hesitated. It was his custom to have some reading always by -him. Sue might be late. She often was. - -Suddenly he raised the book above his head and threw it against the wall -at the other end of the room. Then he picked up his old soft hat (he -never wore an overcoat) and rushed out. - -The Muscovy is a basement restaurant near Washington Square. You get -into it from the street by stumbling down a dark twisting flight of -uneven steps and opening a door under a high stoop. Art dines here and -Anarchism; Ideas sit cheek by jowl with the Senses. - -Sue was not late. She sat in the far corner at one of the few small -tables in the crowded room. Two men, a poet and a painter, lounged -against the table and chatted with her languidly. She had brightened a -little for them. There was a touch of color in her cheeks and some life -in her eyes. The Worm noted this fact as he made his way toward her. - -The poet and the painter wandered languidly away. The chatter of the -crowded smoky room rose to its diurnal climax; passed it as by twos and -threes the diners drifted out to the street or up-stairs to the dancing -and reading-rooms of the Freewoman's Club; and then rapidly died to -nothing. - -Two belated couples strolled in, settled themselves sprawlingly at the -long center table and discussed with the offhand, blandly sophisticated -air that is the Village manner the currently accepted psychology of sex. - -The Worm was smoking now--his old brier pipe--and felt a bit more like -his quietly whimsical self. Sue, however, was moody over her coffee. - -A pasty-faced, very calm young man, with longish hair, came in and -joined in the discussion at the center table. - -Sue followed this person with troubled eyes, "Listen, Henry!" she said -then, "I'm wondering--" - -He waited. - -"--for the first time in two years--if I belong in Greenwich Village." - -"I've asked myself the same question, Sue." - -This remark perturbed her a little; as if it had not before occurred to -her that other eyes were reading her. Then she rushed on--"Take Waters -Coryell over there"--she indicated the pasty-faced one--"I used to think -he was wonderful. But he's all words, Like the rest of us. He always -carries that calm assumption of being above ordinary human limitations. -He talks comradeship and the perfect freedom. But I've had a glimpse -into his methods--Abbie Esterzell, you know--" - -The Worm nodded. - -"--and it isn't a pretty story. I've watched the women, too--the free -lovers. Henry, they're tragic. When they get just a little older." - -He nodded again. "But we were talking about you, Sue. You're not all -words." - -"Yes I am. All talk, theories, abstractions. It gets you, down here. You -do it, like all the others. It's a sort of mental taint. Yet it has -been every thing to me. I've believed it, heart and soul. It has been my -religion." - -"I'm not much on generalizing, Sue," observed the Worm, "but -sometimes I have thought that there's a lot of bunk in this freedom -theory--'self-realization,' 'the complete life,' so on. I notice that -most of the men and women I really admire aren't worried about their -liberty, Sometimes I've thought that there's a limit to our human -capacity for freedom just as there's a limit to our capacity for food -and drink and other pleasant things--sort of a natural boundary. The -people that try to pass that boundary seem to detach themselves in some -vital way from actual life. They get unreal--act queer--_are_ queer. -They reach a point where their pose is all they've got. As you say, it's -a taint. It's a noble thing, all right, to light and bleed and die for -freedom for others. But it seems to work out unhappily when people, men -or women, insist too strongly on freedom for their individual selves." - -But Sue apparently was not listening. Her cheeks--they were -flushed--rested on her small fists. - -"Henry," she said, "it's a pretty serious thing to lose your religion." - -"Losing yours, Sue?" - -"I'm afraid it's gone." - -"You thought this little eddy of talk was real life?" - -She nodded. "Oh, I did." - -"And then you encountered reality?" - -Her eyes, startled, vivid, now somber, flashed up at him. "Henry, how -did you know? What do you know?" - -"Not a thing, Sue. But I know you a little. And I've thought about you." - -"Then," she said, her eyes down again, suppression in her voice--"then -they aren't talking about me?" - -"Not that I've heard. Sue. Though it would hardly come to me." - -She bit her lip. "There you have it, Henry. With the ideas I've held, -and talked everywhere, I ought not to care what they say. But I do -care." - -"Of course. They all do." - -"Do you think so?" She considered this. "You said something a moment ago -that perhaps explains--about the natural boundary of human freedom.... -Listen! You knew Betty Deane, the girl that roomed with me? Well, less -than a year ago, after letting herself go some all the year--it's fair -enough to say that, to you; she didn't cover her tracks--she suddenly -ran off and married a manufacturer up in her home town. I'm sure there -wasn't any love in it. I know it, from things she said and did. All the -while he was after her she was having her good times here. I suppose -she had reached the boundary. She married in a panic. She was having a -little affair with your friend--what's his name?" - -"Hy Lowe?" - -The Worm smiled faintly. The incorrigible Hy had within the week set -up a fresh attachment. This time it was a new girl in the Village--one -Hilda Hansen, from Wisconsin, who designed wall-paper part of the time. - -But he realized that Sue, with a deeper flush now and a look in her eyes -that he did not like to see there, was speaking. - -"When I found out what Betty had done I said some savage things, Henry. -Called her a coward. Oh, I was very superior--very sure of myself. And -here's the grotesque irony of it." Her voice was unsteady. "Here's -what one little unexpected contact with reality can do to the sort -of scornful independent mind I had. Twenty-four hours--less than -that--after Betty went I found myself soberly considering doing the same -thing." - -"Marrying?" The Worm's voice was suddenly low and a thought husky. - -She nodded. - -"A man you don't love?" - -"I've had moments of thinking I loved him, hours of wondering how I -could, possibly." - -He was some time in getting out his next remark. It was, "You'd better -wait." - -She threw out her hands in an expressive way she had. "Wait? Yes, -that's what I've told myself, Henry. But I've lost my old clear sense of -things. My nerves aren't steady. I have queer reactions." - -Then she closed her lips as she had once before on this day, up there on -the avenue. She even seemed to compose herself. Waters Coryell came over -from the other table and for a little time talked down to them from his -attitude of self-perfection. - -When he had gone the Worm said, to make talk, "How are the pictures -coming on?" - -Then he saw that he had touched the same tired nerve center. Her flush -began to return. - -"Not very well," she said; and thought for a moment, with knit brows and -pursed lips. - -She threw out her hands again. "They're quarreling, Henry." - -"Zanin and Peter?" - -She nodded. "It started over Zanin's publicity. He is a genius, you -know. Any sort of effort that will help get the picture across looks -legitimate to him." - -"Of course," mused the Worm, trying to resume the modestly judicial -habit of mind that had seemed lately to be leaving him, "I suppose, in -a way, he is right. It is terribly hard to make a success of such an -enterprise. It is like war---the only possible course is to win." - -"I suppose so," said she, rather shortly. "But then there's the expense -side of it. Zanin keeps getting the bit in his teeth.... Lately I've -begun to see that these quarrels are just the surface. The real clash -lies deeper. It's partly racial, I suppose, and partly--" - -"Personal?" - -"Yes." She threw out her hands. "They're fighting over me. I don't mind -it so much in Peter. He has only lately come to see things our way. -He never made the professions Zanin has of being superior to passions, -jealousies, the sense of possession." - -She paused, brooding, oblivious now to her surroundings, slowly shaking -her head. "Zanin has always said that the one real wrong is to take or -accept love where it isn't real enough to justify itself. But now when I -won't see him--those are the times he runs wild with the business. Then -Peter has to row with him to check the awful waste of money. Peter's -rather wonderful about it. He never loses his courage." - -This was a new picture of Peter. The Worm gave thought to it. - -"First he took Zanin's disconnected abstractions and made a real film -drama out of them. It's big stuff, Henry. Powerful and fine. And then he -threw in every cent he had." - -"Peter threw in every cent!..." The Worm was startled upright, pipe in -hand. - -"Every cent, Henry. All his savings. And never a grudging word. Not -about that." - -She dropped her chin on her hands. Tears were in her eyes. Her boy-cut -short hair had lately grown out a little, and was rumpled where she had -run her fingers through it. It was fine-spun hair and thick on her head. -It was all high lights and rich brown shades. The Worm found himself -wishing it was long and free, rippling down over her shoulders. He -thought, too, of the fine texture of her skin, just beneath the hair. A -warm glow was creeping through his nervous system and into his mind.... -He set his teeth hard on his pipestem. - -She leaned back more relaxed and spoke in a quieter tone. "You know how -I feel about things, Henry. I quit my home. I have put on record my own -little protest against the conventional lies we are all fed on from -the cradle here in America. I went into this picture thing with my -eyes open, because it was what I believed in. It wasn't a pleasant -thought--making myself so conspicuous, acting for the camera without -clothes enough to keep me warm. I believed in Zanin, too. And it seemed -to be a way in which I could really do something for him--after all he -had done for me. But it hasn't turned out well. The ideals seem to have -oozed out of it." - -There she hesitated; thought a little; then added: "The thing I didn't -realize was that I was pouring out all my emotional energy. I had -Zanin's example always before me. He never tires. He is iron. The -Jews are, I think. But--I--" she tried to smile, without great -success--"Well, I'm not iron. Henry, I'm tired." - -The Worm slept badly that night. - -The next morning, after Peter and Hy Lowe had gone, the Worm stood -gloomily surveying his books--between two and three hundred of them, -filling the case of shelves between the front wall and the fireplace, -packed in on end and sidewise and heaped haphazard on top. - -Half a hundred volumes in calf and nearly as many in Morocco dated from -a youthful period when bindings mattered. College years were represented -by a shabby row--Eschuylus, Euripides, Aristophanes, Plato, Plutarch, -Virgil and Horace. He had another Horace in immaculate tree calf. There -was a group of early Italians; an imposing Dante; a Boccaccio, very -rare, in a dated Florentine binding; a gleaning of French history, -philosophy and _belles-lettres_ from Phillippe de Comines and Villon -through Rabelais, Le Sage. Racine, Corneille and the others, to Bergson, -Brieux, Rolland and Anatole France--with, of course, Flaubert, de -Maupassant and a tattered series of _Les Trois Mousquetaires_ in seven -volumes; some modern German playwrights, Hauptmann and Schnitzler among -them; Ibsen in two languages; Strindberg in English; Gogol, Tchekov, -Gorky, Dostoïevski, of the Russians (in that tongue); the modern -psychologists--Forel, Havelock Ellis, Freud--and the complete works of -William James in assorted shapes and bindings, gathered painstakingly -through the years. Walt Whitman was there, Percy's _Reliques_, much -of Galsworthy, Wells and Conrad, _The Story of Gosta Berling_, John -Masefield, and a number of other recent poets and novelists. All his -earthly treasures were on those shelves; there, until now, had his heart -been also. - -He took from its shelf the rare old Boccaccio in the dated binding, -tied a string around it, went down the corridor with it to the bathroom, -filled the tub with cold water and tossed the book in. - -It bobbed up to the surface and floated there. - -He frowned--sat on the rim of the tub and watched it for ten minutes. It -still floated. - -He brought it back to the studio then and set to work methodically -making up parcels of books, using all the newspapers he could find. Into -each parcel went a weight--the two ends of the brass book-holder on the -desk, a bronze elephant, a heavy glass paper-weight, a pint bottle of -ink, an old monkey-wrench, the two bricks from the fireplace that had -served as andirons. - -He worked in a fever of determination. By two o'clock that afternoon he -had completed a series of trips across the West Side and over various -ferry lines, and his entire library lay at the bottom of the North -River. - -From the last of these trips, feeling curiously light of heart, he -returned to find a taxi waiting at the curb and in the studio Peter, -hat, coat and one glove on, his suit-case on a chair, furiously writing -a note. - -Peter finished, leaned back, mopped his forehead. "The books," he -murmured, waving a vague hand toward the shelves. "Where are they?" - -"I'm through with books. Going in for reality." - -"Oh," mused the eminent playwright--"a girl." - -"Pete, you're wonderful." - -"Chucking your whole past life?" - -"It's chucked." Then the Worm hesitated. For a moment his breath nearly -failed him. He stood balancing on the brink of the unknown; and he -knew he had to make the plunge. "Pete--I've got a few hundred stuck -away--and, anyhow, I'm going out for a real job." - -"A job! You! What kind?" - -"Oh--newspaper man, maybe. I want the address--who is your tailor?" - -Peter jotted it down. "By the way," he said, "here's our itinerary. -Stick it in your pocket." Then he gazed at the Worm in a sort of solemn -humor. "So the leopard is changing his spots," he mused. - -"I don't know about that," replied the Worm, flushing,' then reduced to -a grin--as he pocketed the tailor's address--"but this particular Ethiop -is sure going to make a stab at changing his skin." - - - - -CHAPTER XV--ZANIN MAKES HIMSELF FELT - -|SUE was in her half-furnished living-room--not curled comfortably -on the couch-bed, as she would have been a month or two earlier, but -sitting rather stiffly in a chair, a photograph in her listless hand. - -Zanin--big, shaggy, sunburnt--walked the floor. "Are you turning -conventional, Sue?" he asked. "What is it? You puzzle me." - -"I don't want that picture used, Jacob." - -He lighted a cigarette, dropped on a wooden chair, tipped it Lack -against the wall, twisted his feet around the front legs, drummed on the -front of the seat with big fingers. - -He reached for the photograph. It was Sue herself, as she would appear -in one of the more daring scenes of Nature. - -"It's an honest picture, Sue--right off the film." She was very quiet. -"It's the singling it out, Jacob. In the film it is all movement, -action--it passes. It doesn't stay before their eyes." A little feeling -crept into her voice. "I agreed to do the film, Jacob. I'm doing it. Am -I not?" - -"But you're drawing a rather sharp line, Sue. We've got to hit them hard -with this thing. I don't expect Mann to understand. I've got to work -along with him as best I can and let it go at that. But I count on you." -The legs of the chair came down with a bang. He sprang up and walked the -floor again. His cigarette consumed, he lighted another with the butt, -which latter he tossed into a corner of the room. Sue's eyes followed it -there. She was still gazing at it when Zanin paused before her. She -could feel him looking down at her. She wished it were possible to avoid -discussion just now. There had been so many discussions during these -crowded two years.... She raised her eyes. There were his, fixed on her. -He was not tired. His right hand was plunged into his thick hair; his -left hand held the cigarette. - -"You're none too fit, Sue." - -She moved her hands in assert. - -"And that's something to be considered seriously. We need you fit." - -She did not answer at once. She would have liked to send him away. -She tried to recall the long slow series of events, each dovetailed so -intricately into the next that had brought them so close. Her mind--her -sense of fairness--told her that he had every right to stand there and -talk at her; yet he seemed suddenly and oddly a stranger. - -"Suppose," she said, "we stop discussing me." - -He shook his head. "It's quite time to begin discussing you. It's -suppressions, Sue. You've played the Village game with your mind, but -you've kept your feelings under. The result is natural enough--your -nerves are in a knot. You must let go--trust your emotions." - -"I trust my emotions enough," said she shortly. - -He walked back and forth. "Let's look at this dispassionately, Sue. We -can, you and I. Of course I love you--you know that. There have been -women enough in my life, but none of them has stirred my blood as you -have. Not one. I want you--desperately--every minute--month in, month -out. But"--he stood before her again--"if you can't let go with me, I'd -almost--surely, yes, I can say it, I'd rather it would be somebody else -then. But somebody, something. You're all buttled up. It's dangerous." - -She stirred restlessly. - -"You know that as well as I." He was merciless. - -The worst of it was he really seemed dispassionate. For the moment she -could not question his sincerity. He went on--"As lately as last winter -you would have carried all this off with a glorious flare. It's this -suppression that has got to your nerves, as it was bound to. You're -dodging, I'm afraid. You're refusing life." He lit another cigarette. -"It's damn puzzling. At heart you are, I know, a thoroughbred. I -can't imagine you marrying for a living or to escape love. You're -intelligent--too intelligent for that." She moved restlessly, picked up -the photograph and studied it again. - -"You can't go back to that home of yours..." - -"I'm not going back there," she said. - -"And you can't quit. We're too deep in." - -"Don't talk about that, Jacob!" she broke out. "I'm not going to quit." - -He dropped casually on the arm of her chair. One big hand rested on the -chair-back, the other took hers and held it, with the picture, a little -higher. - -She seemed for an instant to shrink away; then, with slightly compressed -lips, sat motionless. - -"You think I am squeamish," she said. - -"Yes, I do." They both looked at the photograph. - -"Really, Sue--why on earth!... What is it, anyway? Are you all of a -sudden ashamed of your body?" - -"Don't expect me to explain. I know I'm inconsistent." - -He pressed her hand; then his other big hand very quietly stroked her -hair, slid down to her forehead, rested slightly on her flushed temple -and cheek. - -"You poor child," he said, "you're almost in a fever. You've got to do -something. Don't you see that?" - -She was silent. - -"It's tearing you to pieces, this giving the lie to your own beliefs. -You've got to let go, Sue! For God's sake, be human! Accept a little -happiness. You're not a small person. You are gifted, big. But you've -got to live the complete life. It's the only answer.... See here. -Peter's away, isn't he?" - -"He left last Thursday... I had a note..." - -"I didn't," Zanin smiled grimly. "It's Tuesday, now. We can't do those -outdoor scenes yet. You come away with me. I'll take you off into the -hills somewhere--over in Pennsylvania or up-state. Let's have some -happiness, Sue. And give me a chance to take a little real care of you. -Half my strength is rusting right now because you won't use it." - -He drew her closer. - -Suddenly she sprang up, leaped across the room, whirled against the wall -and faced him. - -Then she faltered perceptibly, for on his face she saw only frank -admiration. - -"Fine, Sue!" he cried. "That's the old fire! Damn it, girl, don't let's -be childish about this! You and I don't need to get all of a flutter at -the thought of love. If I didn't stir an emotional response in you do -you think I'd want you? But I do." He rose and came to her. He gripped -her shoulders and made her look at him. "Child, for God's sake, don't -all at once forget everything you know! Where's your humor? Can't you -see that this is exactly what you've got to have--that somebody has got -to stir you as I'm stirring you now! If I couldn't reach you, it would -have to be some one else. A little love won't hurt you any. The real -danger I've been fearing is that no man would be able to stir you. That -would be the tragedy. You're a live vital girl. You're an artist. Of -course you've got to have love. You'll never do real work without it. -You'll never even grow up without it." - -She could not meet his eyes. And she had a disheartening feeling that -he was reasonable and right, granting the premises of their common -philosophy. - -He took his hands away. She heard him strike a match and light a -cigarette, then move about the room. Then his voice-- - -"What do you say, Sue--will you pack a bag and start off with me? It'll -do both of us good. It'll give us new life for our job." - -[Illustration: 0185] - -She was shaking her head. "No," she said. "No." - -"If it was only this," he said, thoughtfully enough--"but it's -everything. Peter is lying down on me and now you are failing me -utterly." - -She dropped on a chair by the door. "That's the hardest thing you ever -said to me, Jacob." - -"It is true. I'm not blaming you. But it is a fact I have to meet.... -Sue, do you think for one moment I intend being beaten in this -enterprise? Don't you know me better than that? You are failing me. Not -in love--that is personal. But in the work. Lately I have feared that -Peter had your love. Now, Sue, if I am not to have you I can almost wish -he had. When you do accept love it will hurt you. I have no doubt of -that. There will be reactions. The conventional in you will stab and -stab. But you are not little, and you will feel the triumph of it. It -will make you. After all, however it may come, through door or window, -love is life." - -She had folded her hands in her lap and was looking down at them. "I -have no doubt you are right," she said slowly and quietly. - -He gave a weary sigh. "Of course. Your own intelligence tells you.... -If you won't go with me, Sue, I may slip away alone. I've got to think. -I've got to get money. I can get it, and I will. A little more energy, -a little more expenditure of personality will do it. It can always be -done." - -Her mind roused and seized on this as a momentary diversion. "Do you -mean to go outside for it?" - -"If it comes to that. Don't you know, Sue, that we're too far in with -this thing to falter. The way to make money is to spend money. Peter's a -chicken. If he won't come through, somebody's got to. Why it would cost -more than a thousand dollars--perhaps two thousand--merely to do what I -have planned to do with the picture you so suddenly dislike," He looked -about for his hat. "I'm going, Sue. I've let myself get stirred up; -and that, of course, is foolishness. I'm just tiring you out. You can't -help, I see that--not as you are." - -She rose and leaned against the wall by the door. He took her arm as -he reached her side. "Buck up, little girl," he said; "don't blame -yourself." - -She did not answer, and for a long moment they stood thus. Then she -heard him draw in his breath. - -His arms were around her. He held her against him. - -"Have you got a kiss for me, Sue?" he asked. - -She shook her head. - -He let her go then, and again she leaned against the walk - -"Good-by," said he. "If you could bring yourself to share the real -thrill with me, I could help you. But I'm not going to wear you out with -this crude sex-duel stuff. Good-by." - -"Wait," she said then. She moved over to the table, and fingered -the photograph. He stood in the doorway and watched her. She was -thinking--desperately thinking. He could see that. The flush was still -on her temples and cheeks. Finally she straightened up and faced him. - -"Jacob," she said, "I can't let you go like that. This thing has got to -be settled. Really settled." - -He slowly nodded. - -"Give me till Saturday, Jacob. I promise you I'll try to think it all -out. I'll go through with the pictures anyway--somehow. As for this -photograph, go ahead. Use it. Only please don't commit yourself in a -money way before I see you. Come to tea Saturday, at four. I'll either -tell you finally that we are---well, hardly to be friends beyond the -rest of this job of ours, or I'll--I'll go along with you, Jacob." - -Her voice faltered over the last of this, but her eyes did not. And her -chin was high. - -"It's too bad," said he. "But you're right. It isn't me. You've come to -the point where you've got to find yourself." - -"That's it," she said. "I've got to try to find out what I am. If -my thoughts and feelings have been misleading me--well, maybe I _am_ -conventional--maybe I _am_ little--" - -Her voice broke. Her eyes filled. But she fought the tears back and -still faced him. - -He took a step toward her. She shook her head. - -He went out then. - -And when the outer door shut she dropped limply on the couch-bed. - - - -CHAPTER XVI--THE WORM PROPOSES MARRIAGE IN GENERAL - -|TWO days later, on Thursday, the Worm crossed the Square and Sixth -Avenue and entered Greenwich Village proper. - -He was dressed, at the top, in a soft gray hat from England. Next -beneath was a collar that had cost him forty cents. The four-in-hand -scarf was an imported foulard, of a flowering pattern in blues and -greens; with a jade pin stuck in it. The new, perfectly fitting suit -was of Donegal homespun and would cost, when the bill was paid, slightly -more than sixty dollars. The shoes, if not custom made, were new. And he -carried a slender stick with a curving silver head. - -He felt uncomfortably conspicuous. His nerves tingled with an emotional -disturbance that ignored his attempts to dismiss it as something beneath -him. For the first time in nearly a decade he was about to propose -marriage to a young woman. As he neared the street on which the young -woman lived, his steps slackened and his mouth became uncomfortably -dry.... All this was absurd, of course. He and Sue were good friends. -"There needn't be all this excitement," he told himself with a desperate -clutching at the remnants of his sense of humor, "over suggesting to her -that we change from a rational to an irrational relationship." - -At the corner, however, he stopped dead. Then with a self-consciousness -worthy of Peter himself, he covered his confusion by buying an afternoon -paper and walking slowly back toward Sixth Avenue. - -Suddenly, savagely, he crumpled the paper into a ball, threw it into the -street, strode resolutely to Sue's apartment-house and rang her bell. - -Sue promptly lighted the alcohol lamp under her kettle and they had tea. -Over the cups, feeling coldly desperate, the Worm said: - -"Been thinking you all over, Sue." It was a relief to find that his -voice sounded fairly natural. - -She took the remark rather lightly. "I'm not worth it, Henry.... I've -thought some myself--your idea of the boundary..." - -His thoughts were moving on with disconcerting rapidity. He must take -the plunge. It was his fate. He knew it. - -"We talked marriage," he said. - -She nodded. - -"Since then I've tried to figure but what I do think, and crystallize -it. Sue, I'm not so sure that Betty was wrong." - -"That's a new slant," said she thoughtfully. - -"Or very old. Just try to look through my eyes for a moment. Betty had -tried freedom--had something of a fling at it. Now, it is evident that -in her case it didn't work very well. Isn't it?" - -"In her case, yes," Sue observed quietly. - -"Precisely, in her case. She had reached the boundary. You'll admit -that?" - -Sue smiled faintly at his argumentative tone. "Yes, I'll admit it." - -"Betty isn't a great soul. A stronger nature would have taken longer to -reach the boundary. But doesn't it indicate that the boundary is there?" - -"Well"--Sue hesitated. "All right. For the sake of the argument I'll -admit that, too.". - -"Well, now, just what has Betty done? She doesn't love this manufacturer -she has married." - -"Not a bit." - -"And the marriage may fail. The majority of them, from an idealistic -point of view, undoubtedly do fail. Admitting all that, you have let me -see that you yourself in a weak moment have considered the same course." - -Sue's brow clouded. But she nodded slowly. - -"Well, then"--he hitched forward in his chair, and to cover his -burning eagerness talked, if possible, a shade more stiffly -and impersonally--"doesn't this, Betty's act and your momentary -consideration of the same act, suggest that a sound instinct may be at -work there?" - -"If cowardice is an instinct, Henry." - -"How do you know it is cowardice? From what data do you get that -conclusion? Betty, after all her philandering, has undertaken a definite -contract. It binds her. It is a job. There is discipline in it, a chance -for service. It creates new conditions of life which will certainly -change her unless she quits. Haven't you noticed, all your life, what a -relief it is to get out of indecision into a definite course, even if it -costs you something?" - -Again that faint smile of hers. "Turning conservative, Henry?" - -He ignored this. "Life moves on in epochs, Sue. If you don't start -getting educated when you're a youngster, you go most awfully wrong. If -you don't accept the discipline of work as soon as you've got a little -education and grown up, you're a slacker and before long you're very -properly rated as a slacker. So with a woman--given this wonderful -function of motherhood and the big emotional capacity that goes with -it--if she waits too long after her body and Spirit have ripened she -goes wrong, emotionally and spiritually. There's a time with a normal -woman when love and maternity are--well, the next thing. Not with every -woman of course. But pretty certainly with the woman who reaches that -time, refuses marriage, and then is forced to admit that her life isn't -working out. Peter has coined the word for what that woman becomes--a -better word than he himself knows... she's a truffler." - -She was gazing at him. "Henry," she cried, "what has struck you? Where's -that humorous balance of yours?" - -"I'm in earnest, Sue." - -"Yes, I see. But why on earth--" - -"Because I want you to marry--" - -It was at this moment that the Worm's small courage fled utterly out of -his inexperienced heart. And his tongue, as if to play a saturnine trick -on that heart, repeated the phrase, unexpectedly to what was left of his -brain, with an emphatic downward emphasis that closed the discussion. - -"I want you to marry," he said. - -A sudden moisture came to Sue's eyes, and much of the old frankness as -she surveyed him. - -"Henry," she said then, "you are wonderful, coming at me like this, as -if you cared--" - -"I do care--" - -"I know. I feel it. Just when I thought friends were--well..." She did -not finish this, but sat erect, pushed her teacup aside and gazed at him -with something of the old alertness in the green-brown eyes. There -was sudden color in her cheeks. "Henry, you've roused me--just when I -thought no one could. I've got to think.... You go away. You don't mind, -do you? Just let me be alone. I've felt lately as if I was losing--my -mind, my will, my perceptions--something. And, Henry--wait!" For he had -risen, with a blank face, and was looking for his hat. - -"Wait--did Peter leave you his itinerary?" - -The Worm felt in his pockets and produced it. - -"He sent me one, but I tore it up." She laughed a little, then colored -with a nervous suddenness; and walked after him to the door. "You've -always had the faculty of rousing me, Henry, and steadying me. To-day -you've stirred me more than you could possibly know. I don't know what -will come of it--I'm dreadfully; confused--but I can at least try to -think it out." - -That was all--all but a few commonplace phrases at the doer. - -"Oh," said he, with a touch of awkwardness, "I meant to tell you that -I've made a change myself." - -"You?" Again her eyes, recalled to him, ran over his new clothes. - -"I start work to-morrow, on _The Evening Courier_." - -"Oh, Henry, I'm glad. Good luck! It ought to be interesting." - -"At least," said he heavily, "it will be a slight contact with reality," -and hurried away. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII--ENTER GRACE DERRING - -|THE TRUFFLER opened at Albany. Before ten o'clock of that first -evening even the author knew that-something was wrong with the second -act. - -The company wandered across New York State into Pennsylvania; Peter, -by day and night, rewriting that unhappy act. The famous producer, Max -Neuerman, fat but tireless, called endless rehearsals. There was hot -coffee at one a. m., more hot coffee at five A. m., but it was never -so hot as the scalding tears of the leading lady, Miss Trevelyan, who -couldn't, to save her, make Peter's lines come real. - -'There were, also, dingy Eagle Houses and Hotel Lincolns where soggy -food was hurled at you in thick dishes by strong-armed waitresses. - -Finally, Neuerman himself dictated a new scene that proved worse than -any of Peter's. The publicity man submitted a new second-act curtain. -The stage manager said that you couldn't blame Miss Trevelyan; she was -an emotional actress, and should not be asked to convey the restraint of -ironic comedy--in which belief he rewrote the act himself. - -By this time, the second act had lost whatever threads of connecting -interest it may have had with the first and third; so Neuerman suggested -that Peter do those over. Peter began this--locked up over Sunday in a -hotel room. - -Then Neuerman made this announcement: - -"Well--got one more string to my bow. Trevelyan can't do your play, and -she's not good enough to swing it on personality. We're going to try -some one that can." - -"Who, for instance?" muttered Peter weakly. - -"Grace Derring." - -We have spoken of Grace Derring. It was not a year since that tumultuous -affair had brought Peter to the brink of self-destruction. And that not -because of any coldness between them. Not exactly. You see--well, life -gets complicated at times. You are not to think harshly of Peter; for -your city bachelor does _not_ inhabit a vacuum. There have usually -been--well, episodes. Nor are you to feel surprise that Peter's face, in -the space of a moment, assumed an appearance of something near helpless -pain. - -So Grace Herring was to be whirled back into his life--caught up out of -the nowhere, just as his devotion to Sue had touched exalted heights! - -The voice of the fat manager was humming in his ears. - -"She made good for us in _The Buzzard_. Of course her work in _The Gold -Heart_ has put her price up. But she has the personality. I guess we've -got to pay her." - -Peter started to protest, quite blindly. Then, telling himself that he -was too tired to think (which was true), he subsided. - -"Can you get her?" he asked cautiously. - -"She's due here at five-thirty." - -Peter slipped away. Neuerman had acted without consulting him. It seemed -to him that he should be angry. But he was merely dazed. - -He walked the streets, a solitary, rather elegant figure, conspicuously -a New Yorker, swinging his stick savagely and occasionally muttering to -himself. He roved out to the open country. Maple buds were sprouting. -New grass was pushing upward into the soft air. The robins were singing. -But there were neither buds nor robins in Peter's heart. He decided to -be friendly with Grace, but reserved. - -It was nearly six when he entered the barnlike office of the hotel, his -eyes on the floor, full of himself. Then he saw her, registering at the -desk. - -He had stopped short. He could not very well turn and go out. She might -see him.. And he was not afraid. - -She did see him. He raised his hat, Their hands met--he extremely -dignified, she smiling a very little. - -"Well, Peter!" - -"You're looking well, Grace." - -"Am I?" - -They moved, tacitly, into the adjoining parlor and stood by the window. - -"I thought--" he began. - -"What did you think, Peter?" Then, before he could reply, she went on -to say: "I've been working through the Middle West. Closed in Cincinnati -last week." - -"Had a hard season?" - -"Hard--yes." She glanced down at a large envelope held under her arm. -"Mr. Neuerman sent your play. I've just read it--on the train." - -"Oh, you've read it?" - -"Yes." Again that hint of a smile. Peter's eyes wandered about the room. -"It's funny," she murmured. - -"What's funny?" said he severely. - -"I was thinking of this play." She took it out of the envelope and -rapidly turned the typewritten pages. "So bachelor women are--what you -call 'trufflers,' Peter!" - -"It is quite impersonal, Grace." - -"Oh, of course--a work of art--" - -Not clear what that twisted little smile of hers meant, he kept silent. - -"Oh, Peter!" she said then, and left him. Everything considered, he felt -that he had handled it rather well. - -This was Tuesday. It was arranged that Miss Derring should make her -first appearance Thursday night. Meantime, she was to get up her part -and watch the play closely with the idea of possible suggestions. Peter -kept austerely aloof, working day and night on the revision of Acts I -and III. Neuerman and Miss Derring consulted together a good deal. On -Thursday, Peter caught them at the luncheon table, deep in a heap of -scribbled sheets of paper that appeared to be in Grace's large hand. - -They urged him to join them, but he shook his head. He did agree, -however, to sit through the rehearsal, later in the afternoon. - -Thus it was that he found himself seated next to Grace in one of the -rear rows of a dim empty theater, all but lost in the shadows under the -balcony. Neuerman left them, and hurried down to the stage to pull his -jaded company together. - -It seemed to Peter that they were very close, he and Grace, there in -the shadow. He could feel her sleeve against his arm. He wished Neuerman -would come back. - -Unexpectedly to himself, Peter started nervously. His hat slipped from -his knees. He caught it. His hand brushed Grace's skirt, then her hand. -Slowly their fingers interlocked. - -They sat there, minute after minute, without a sound, her fingers tight -in his. Then, suddenly, he threw an arm about her shoulders and tried to -kiss her. With a quick little rustle, she pressed him back. - -"Don't," she whispered. "Not here." - -So Peter leaned back and sat very still again, holding her hand down -between the two seats. - -Finally the rehearsal was over. They evaded the manager and walked. -There was a river in this town, and a river road. Peter sought it. And -out there in the country, with buds and robins all about them and buds -and robins in his heart, he kissed her. He knew that there had never -been any woman in all the world but Grace, and told her so. All of his -life except the hours he had spent with her faded into an unreal and -remote dream. - -Grace had something on her mind. But it was a long time before she could -bring Peter to earth. Finally he bethought himself. - -"My dear child," he said--they were strolling hand in hand--"here it is -after seven! You've had no dinner--and you're going on to-night." - -"Not to-night, Peter. Not until Monday." - -"But--but--" - -"Mr. Neuerman and I have been trying to explain what we were doing, but -you wouldn't listen. Peter, I've made a lot of suggestions for the part, -He asked me to. I want your approval, of course. I'm going to ask him -to show you what I've done." But Peter heard only dimly. Near the hotel, -she left him, saying, with a trace of anxiety: "I don't want to see you -again, Peter, until you have read it. Look me up for lunch to-morrow, -and tell me if you think I've hurt your play." - -Neuerman came to him late that night with a freshly typed manuscript. He -tried to read it, but the buds and robins were still alive, the play a -stale dead thing. - -Friday morning, there was a letter for Peter, addressed in Sue's hand. -The sight of it confused him, so that he put it in his pocket and did -not open it until after his solitary breakfast. It had the effect of -bringing Sue suddenly to life again in his heart without, at first, -crowding Grace out. - -"It's love that is the great thing," he thought, explaining the -phenomenon to himself. "The object of it is an incident, after all. It -may be this woman, or that--or both. But the creative artist must have -love. It is his life." - -Then he read Sue's letter; and pictures of her arose. It began to appear -to him that Sue had inspired him as Grace never had. Perhaps it was -Sue's youth. Grace, in her way, was as honest as Sue, but she was not so -young. And the creative artist must have youth, too! - -The letter was brief. - -"_Could you, by any chance, run back to New York Saturday--have tea with -me? I want you here. Come about four_." - -But it fired his imagination. It was like Sue to reach out to him in -that abrupt way, explaining nothing. - -Then he settled down in his room, a glow in his heart, to find out just -what Grace and Neuerman had done, between! them, to _The Truffler_. - -At noon that day a white Peter, lips trembling, very still and stiff, -knocked at Miss Derring's door. - -She opened it, just dressed for luncheon. - -"Oh," she cried--"Peter!" - -"Here," said he frigidly, "is the manuscript of your play." - -Her eyes, very wide, searched his face. - -"It is not mine. I wash my hands of it." - -"Oh, Peter--please don't talk like this." - -"You have chosen to enter into a conspiracy with Neuerman to wreck what -little was left of my play. With Neuerman!" He emphasized the name. "I -am through." - -"But, Peter--be sensible. Come to lunch and we'll straighten this up in -five minutes. Nothing is being forced on you. I was asked..." - -"You were brought here without my knowledge. And now--this!" - -He strode away, leaving the manuscript in her hands. - -She stood there in the door, following him with bewildered eyes until he -had disappeared around a turn in the hall. - -Peter, feeling strongly (if vaguely) that he had sacrificed everything -for a principle, packed his suitcase, caught a train to Pittsburgh, and -later, a sleeper for New York. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII--THE WORM CONSIDERS LOVE - -|ZANIN came in quietly, for him; matter of fact; dropped his hat on the -couch; stood with his hands in his pockets and looked down at Sue who -was filling her alcohol lamp. - -"Well, Sue," said he, "it's Saturday at four. I've kept my part of the -agreement. You haven't had a word from me. But"--and he did show feeling -here--"you are not to think that it has been easy. We've talked like -sensible people, you and I, but I'm not sensible." Still she bent -over the lamp. "So you'd better tell me. Are we starting off together -to-night?" - -"Don't ask me now," she said. - -"Oh, come, Sue. Now, really!" - -She straightened up. "I'm not playing with you, Jacob. I promised to -answer you to-day." - -"Well--why don't you? Now. Why wait?" - -"Because I don't know yet." - -"But good God, Sue! If you don't know yet--" - -She threw out her hands. - -He dropped into a chair; studied her gloomily. - -Then the bell rang and Peter came in. And Sue faced two grave silent -men. - -"First," she said, as briskly as she could, "we shall have tea." - -This much accomplished and the biscuits distributed, she curled herself -up on the couch. "Now," she said, "this has been a difficult week. And I -can see only one thing to do. The Nature Film Company is in a bad way." - -For the first time the two men looked squarely at each other. Sue, her -color up, a snap in her eyes, suppressed a perverse impulse to laugh, -and steadied herself. - -"Here we are," she went on. "I've been worn out--no good for weeks. You -men are fighting each other--oh, yes, you are!--and yet we three are -the ones that have got to do it. Now, Jacob, you have hinted at new -expenses, new money problems, to me. I want you to say it all to Peter. -Every word. Wait, please! And, Peter, you have felt that Jacob was -inclined to run wild. Say it to him." She wound up in a nervous little -rush and stopped short as if a thought frightened--"And as for me, -it's not a question of what I will or won't do. I'm afraid, if we don't -straighten things out, it's going to be a question what I shall be able -to do. We must get all this--what do you say?--'on the carpet.' Please -begin!" - -She sank back, drew a long breath and watched them with eyes in which -there was a curious nervous alertness. - -More than Sue could have dreamed, it was a situation made to Peter's -hand. Without a moment's warning she had called on him to play, in some -small degree, the hero. She had given him the chance to be more of a -hero than Zanin. His very soul glowed at the thought. Given an audience, -Peter could be anything. - -So it turned out that just as Zanin gave an odd little snort, caught -squarely between impatience and pride, Peter turned on him and said, -very simply: - -"Sue is right, Zarin. We have been knifing each other. And I'm -ashamed to say that I haven't even had the sense to see that it wasn't -business." And he put out his hand. - -Zanin hesitated a faint fraction of a second and took it. - -Then Peter--sure now that he knew how the late J. P. Morgan must have -felt about things, full of still wonder at himself and touched by the -wistful thought that had he chosen differently in youth he might easily -have become a master of men--hit on the compromise of giving full play -to Zanin's genius for publicity, provided Zanin, for his part, submitted -to a budget system of expenditure. - -"And a pretty small budget, too," he added. "We've got to do it with -brains, Zanin, as you did things at the Crossroads." - -This settled, however, a silence fell. Each of the three knew that -nothing had been settled. Sue, that quiet light in her eyes, watched -them. - -Then suddenly, with her extraordinary lightness of body, she sprang to -her feet. Peter, all nerves, gave a start. Zanin merely followed her -with eyes.--heavy puzzled eyes. - -Sue picked up the tea kettle. "One of you--Peter--bring the tray!" she -commanded as she went out into the dark kitchenette. - -Peter, with a leap almost like Sue's, followed. He could not see clearly -out there, but he thought she was smiling as she set down the kettle. - -"Sue," he whispered, still in the glow of his quiet heroism, "I knew I -loved you, but never before today did I realize how much." No one could -have uttered the words with simpler dignity. - -She stood motionless, bending Over the kettle, - -"Something has happened to-day," she said very low. - -"Sue--nothing serious!..." - -She raised her head now. She _was_ smiling. "How much do you want me, -Peter?" - -"I can only offer you my life, Sue, dear." - -"Supposing--what if--I--were--to accept it?" - -She slipped away from his outstretched arms then, and back to the -living-room. Peter, in a wordless ecstasy, followed. - -"Jacob," she said, without faltering. "I want you to congratulate me. -Peter and I are going to"--she gave a little excited laugh now--"to try -marriage." - -The Worm wandered into the Muscovy for dinner. - -Sue and Peter caught him there just as he was paying Lis check. - -"Peter," she said, not caring who might hear--"we owe a lot to Henry. -Perhaps everything. In that dreadful mood I wouldn't have listened to -reason from any one else--never in the world." - -"You Worm," Peter chuckled. "Looks like a little liquid refreshment." - -So the Worm had to drink with them, but conviviality was not in his -heart. He raised his glass; looked over it, grimly, at Peter. "I drink," -he said, "to Captain Miles Standish." - -Peter let it go as one of Henry Bates' quaint whimsies. - -But Sue looked puzzled. And the Worm, suddenly contrite, got away and -walked the streets, carrying with him a poignantly vivid picture of a -fresh girlish face with high color and vivid green-brown eyes. - -After a while he tried going home, weakly wishing he might find -something to read; instead he found Hy Lowe and an extremely -good-looking girl with mussed hair. They fairly leaped apart as he came -stumbling in. - -"We're trying a new step," panted Hy quite wildly. "Oh, yes, this is -Miss Hilda Hansen--Henry Bates." - -The Worm liked the way she blushed. But he suddenly and deeply hated Hy. - -The Worm went out and sat on a bench in the Square. He was still sitting -there when the moon came up over the half-clothed trees. - -Little Italians from the dark streets to the southward played about the -broad walks. Busses rumbled by on the central drive. A policeman passed. - -Full-breasted girls arm in arm with swarthy youthful escorts strolled -past. One couple sat on his bench and kissed. He got up hurriedly. - -At last, rather late he stood, a lonely figure under the marble arch, -gazing downward at his shoes, his stick, his well made, neatly pressed -trousers. He took off his new hat and stared at it. - -The policeman, passing, paused to take him in, then satisfied as to his -harmlessness, moved on. - -"Busy day, to-morrow," the Worm told himself irrelevantly. "Better turn -in." - -He saw another moon-touched couple approaching. He kept out of their -sight. The man was Hy Lowe, dapper but earnest, clutching the arm of his -very new Miss Hansen, bending close over her. - -The Worm watched until he lost them in the shadows of Waverley Place. -Next, as if there were some connection, he stared down again at his own -smart costume. - -"Love," he informed himself, "is an inflammation of the ego." - -Then he went home and to bed. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX--BUSINESS INTERVENES - -|THE Worm met Sue Wilde one afternoon as she stepped down from a Seventh -Avenue car--carried it off with a quite successful air of easy surprise. -He couldn't see that it harmed Peter or anybody, for him to meet her now -and then. If it gave him pleasure just to see her walk--even in a middy -blouse, old skirt and sneakers, she was graceful as a Grecian youth!--to -speak and then listen to her voice as she answered, to glimpse her -profile and sense the tint of health on her olive skin, whose business -was it! So long as he was asking nothing! Besides, Sue didn't dream. He -didn't intend that she should dream. He had lied to her with shy -delight regarding his set habit of walking every afternoon. He hated -walks--hated all forms of exercise. He knew pretty accurately when she -would be through her day's work at the plant of the Interstellar Film -Company, over in Jersey, because they were doing outside locations now, -and outdoor work, even in April, needs light. He knew precisely -what trains she could catch; had, right now, a local time table in a -convenient pocket. Sue was an outdoor girl and would prefer ferry to -tube. From the ferry it was car or sidewalk; either way she couldn't -escape him unless she headed elsewhere than toward her dingy little -apartment. - -To-day he walked home with her. - -She suggested tea. He let his eyes dwell on her an instant--she on -the top step, he just below--and in that instant he forgot Peter. "All -right," said he, a pleasant glow in his breast, "if you'll have dinner -with me. They have a fresh lot of those deep-sea oysters at Jim's." - -Then he caught her hesitation and recalled Peter. For a moment they -stood in silence, then: "Don't let's trade," she said. "Come in for tea -anyway." - -He followed her in, reflecting. Peter or no Peter, it disturbed him to -sec this restraint in Sue Wilde. He felt that it disturbed her a little, -too. It was possible, of course, that this was one of the evenings when -Peter expected to appropriate her. The Worm was the least obtrusive -of men, but he could be stubborn. Then and there he asked if this was -Peter's evening. - -She was stooping to unlock the apartment door. "No," she replied rather -shortly, "he's working tonight." - -They had hardly got into the apartment before the bell rang, and Sue -went out to answer it. The Worm, sandy of hair, mild of feature, -dropped into the willow armchair, rested elbows on knees, surveyed the -half-furnished living-room and smiled. - -In a mason jar on the mantel, next to a hit-or-miss row of Russian -novels, Havelock Ellis's _Sex in Relation to Society, Freud on Dreams -and Psychanalysis_, and two volumes of Schnitzler's plays, blazed a -large cluster of jonquils. At the other end of the mantel, drooping over -the rim of a green water pitcher, were dusty yellow roses, full blown, -half their petals scattered on books, mantel and hearth, their scent -heavy in his nostrils. A tin wash basin, on the mission table by the -wall, was packed, smothered, with pansies--buff, yellow, orange, purple, -velvet black. A bunch of violets surmounted an old sugar bowl that -shared with cigarette boxes, matches and an ash receiver, the tabouret -by the couch-bed. But what widened the Worm's faint smile into a -forthright grin, square and huge on the table, towering over the pansies, -was a newly opened five-pound box of sweets. - -Sue came in, smiling herself, with a hint of the rueful, bearing before -her a long parcel with square ends. - -"I'll bet it's roses," observed the Worm. - -She tore off the paper, opened the box with quick fingers--it _was_ -roses--deep red ones. - -She took a chocolate, nibbled it; then stepped back, laughing a little -and threw out her hands. "Henry," she cried, "what on earth am I to do -with him! I've hinted. And I've begged. I'm afraid I'll hurt him--" - -"You would go and get engaged to him, Sue. And I must say he plays -the rôle with all his might." After which remark, the Worm produced, -scraped, filled and lighted his pipe. - -"I'll start the water," said Sue; then instead, stood gazing at the -flowers. "It's so--Victorian!" - -The Worm grinned cheerfully. "Peter isn't so easy to classify as that." - -"I know." She reached for another chocolate. "He isn't Victorian." - -"Not all the time, certainly. And not all over. Just in spots." - -Her color deepened slightly. "You've never read the scenario he did for -us, Henry. Nothing Victorian about that. There's a ring to it--and -power. Nobody who misses the modern spirit _could_ have written it. Not -possibly. It's the real battle cry of woman's freedom. And a blow for -honesty! It is when I think of that--how the pictures are to be shown in -every city and every village, all over this country--reaching people -that the books never reach and touching their emotions, yes, their -hearts where feminist speakers and such just antagonize them--" - -The sentence died out in mid-air. Sue, a flash in her deep-green eyes, -stared out the window at the old red brick walls that surrounded the -score of fenced-in little back yards, walls pierced with hundreds of -other rear windows and burdened with cluttered fire-escapes, walls -hidden here and there by high-hung lines of washing. - -She spoke again. "Don't you see, Henry, that's what makes this miserable -business worth while, that's what justifies it--all this posing before -those camera people, working with hired actors that don't for a moment -know what it's all about and don't understand my being in it or my -relations with Peter or the friendly feeling I have for Zanin--it's -getting so I have to fight it out with myself all over again every -morning to get through it at all. But when I'm almost hopelessly stale -all I have to do is come home here and shut the door and curl up on the -couch and read the thing as Peter wrote it--it brings the vision back, -Henry!--and then I think of him staking all his savings to make it a -success--Oh, I know that's personal, just for me..." - -Sue was having some trouble with sentences today. This one didn't get -finished either. She stood there brooding; started another one: "Henry, -Zanin couldn't do it--with all his intelligence and drive--it took -Peter to phrase Zanin's own ideas and then add the real quality to them -and form and human feeling--Zanin is cold, an intellectualist not an -artist." Suddenly she broke out with this--"Of course this marriage means -a long series of adjustments. Do you suppose I don't know that? Doesn't -every marriage?" - -The Worm was silent; smoking slowly and watching her. He was thinking -very soberly. "Whom among women the gods would destroy they first make -honest." - -Sue felt his gaze and raised her chin with a little jerk; tried to -smile; finally caught up the box of roses and buried her face in them. - -"Peter oughtn't to spend the money," she cried, not unhumorously, "but -it is dear of him. Every time I come into the room the flowers sing to -me." - -"After all," said he, helping her out, "it's a relief, in these parts, -to see some one taking marriage seriously. Date set yet?" - -She nodded. - -"Not telling?" - -She shook her head. - -"Soon?" - -She nodded. "That's all. No more questions." - -"Religious ceremony?" - -"Hardly, Henry." She was a thought grim about this. - -"You can be as rationalistic as you like," said he, musing, "but -marriage _is_ a fairy story. Like the old-fashioned Christmas with tree -and candles and red bells--yes, and Santa Claus. You can't rationalise -love, and you can't casualize it. Not without debasing it. Love isn't -rational. It is exclusive, exacting, mysterious. It isn't even wholly -selfish." His tone lightened. "All of which is highly heterodox, here on -Tenth Street." - -She smiled faintly and busied herself over the teakettle. - -"I'm glad to see that Zanin keeps friendly, Sue." She sobered, and said: -"There, it's boiling." The bell sounded again--two short rings, a pause, -one long ring. - -She started, bit her lip. "That's Zanin now," she said. "He hasn't been -here since--" She moved toward the door, then hesitated. "I wish you -would--" - -She bit her lip again, then suddenly went. He heard the door open and -heard her saying: "Henry Bates is here. Come in." - -Zanin entered the room, and the Worm quietly considered him. The man -had a vision. And he had power--unhindered by the inhibitions of the -Anglo-Saxon conscience, undisciplined by the Latin instinct for form, -self-freed from the grim shackles of his own ancestry. He wore a -wrinkled suit, cotton shirt with rolling collar, his old gray sweater in -lieu of waistcoat. - -He drank three cups of tea, chatted restively, drummed with big fingers -on the chair-arm and finally looked at his watch. - -The Worm knocked the ashes from his pipe and considered. Just what did -Sue wish he would do? No use glancing at her for further orders, for now -she was avoiding his glances. He decided to leave. - -Out on the sidewalk he stood for a moment hesitating between a sizable -mess of those deep-sea bivalves at Jim's oyster bar and wandering back -across Sixth Avenue and Washington Square to the rooms. It wasn't dinner -time; but every hour is an hour with oysters, and Jim's was only a step. -But then he knew that he didn't want to eat them alone. For one moment -of pleasant self-forgetfulness he had pictured Sue sitting on the other -side of the oysters. They went with Sue to-night, were dedicated to her. -He considered this thought, becoming rather severe with himself, called -it childish sentimentality; but he didn't go to Jim's. He went to the -rooms. - -When he had gone Zanin hitched forward in his chair and fixed his eyes -on Sue over his teacup. - -"What is it, Jacob?" she asked, not facing him. - -He wasted no words. "You know something of our business arrangements, -Sue--Peter's and mine." - -She nodded. - -"There's a complication. When we formed The Nature Film Company we -had, as assets, my ideas and energy and Peters money and theatrical -experience. And we had you, of course. You were vital--I built the whole -idea around your personality." - -"Yes, I know," she broke in with a touch of impatience. - -"Peter stood ready to put in not more than four to five thousand -dollars. That was his outside figure. He told me that it was nearly all -he had--and anyway that he is living on his capital." - -"I know all that," said she. - -"Very good!" He put down his teacup and spread his hands in a sweeping -gesture. "Now for the rest of it. Of course we had no organization or -equipment, so we made the deal with the Interstellar people. They took -a third interest. They supply studio, properties, camera men, the use -of their New Jersey place and actors and hand us a bill every week. -Naturally since we got to work with all our people on the outside -locations, the bills have been heavy--last week and this--especially -this. Before we get through they'll be heavier." He drew a folded paper -from his pocket; spread it out with a slap of a big hand; gave it to -her. - -"Why, Jacob," she faltered and caught her breath. "Eight hundred and--" - -He nodded. "It's running into regular money. And here we are! Peter has -put in three thousand already." - -"Three thousand!" - -"More--about thirty-two hundred." - -"But, Jacob, at this rate--" - -"What will the whole thing cost? My present estimate is twelve to -fifteen thousand." - -Sue flushed with something near anger. "This is new, Jacob! You said -three or four thousand." - -He shrugged his shoulders. His face was impassive. - -"It was as new to me as to you. The situation is growing. We must grow -with it. We've got a big idea. It has all our ideals in it, and it's -going to be a practical success, besides. It's going to get across, Sue. -We'll all make money. Real money. It'll seem queer." - -Sue, eyes wide, was searching that mask of a face. - -"But here's the difficulty. Peter isn't strong enough to swing it. -Within another week we'll be past his limit--and we can't stop. _He_ -can't stop. Don't you see?" - -She was pressing her hands against her temples. "Yes," she replied, in a -daze, "I see." - -"Well, now." He found a cigarette on the tabouret; lighted it, squared -around. "The Interstellar people aren't fools. They know we're stuck. -They've made us an offer." - -"For the control?" - -He nodded. "For the control, yes. But they leave us an interest. They'd -have to or pay us good big salaries. You see, they're in, too. It means -some sacrifice for us, but--oh, well, after all, 't means that -the Nature Film has a value. They'll finance it and undertake the -distribution. There's where we might have come a cropper anyway--the -distribution. I've just begun to see that. You keep learning." - -She was trying to think. Even succeeding after a little. - -"Jacob," she said, very quiet, "why do you bring this to me?" - -He spread his hands. "This is business, now. I'll be brutal." - -She nodded, lips compressed. - -"You and Peter--you're to be married, the minute we get the picture -done, I suppose." - -"But that--" - -He waved at the flowers, stared grimly at the huge box of candy. -"Peter's an engaged man, an idiot. He's living in 1880. I'm the man who -offered you love with freedom. Don't you realize that the time has come -when Peter and I can't talk. It's the truth, Sue. You know it. You're -the only human link between us. Therefore, I'm talking to you." He -waited for her to reply; then as she was still, added this quite -dispassionately: "Better watch Peter, Sue. He's not standing up very -well under the strain. I don't believe he's used to taking chances. Of -course, when a nervous cautious man does decide to plunge--" - -She interrupted him. "I take it you're planning to go ahead, regardless, -Jacob." - -"Of course." he shrugged his shoulders. "I've told you--we can't stop. -Peter least of all. It's pure luck to us that the Interstellar folks -can't stop either." - -"You mean--if they could--we'd..." - -"Fail? Certainly. Smash." - -Sue felt his strength; found herself admiring him, as she had admired -him in the past--coldly, with her mind only. - -"I will not go to him as your messenger," she said, again partly angry. - -"All right--if you won't! Call him--" He waved toward the telephone. "Is -he home now?" She nodded. - -"It's a partnership for him--a good offer--responsible people. See here, -Sue, you must be made to grasp this. We're going straight on. Got to! -The problem is to make Peter understand--the shape he's in, frightened -to death... he won't listen to me.... It's up to you, Sue. It's a job to -be handled. I'm trying to tell you. One way or another, it's got to be -broken to him tonight. We've got precious little time to give him for -his nervous upset before he comes around." - -Sue looked at him. Her hands were folded in her lap.. - -"Well--?" said he. - -"Jacob, you shouldn't have come to me." - -"You won't even call him?" - -"No." - -"May I?" - -"Of course." - -He got up, moved toward the telephone, hesitated midway, changed his -mind and picked up his hat. Holding it between his hands he stood over -her. She waited. But instead of speaking, he went out. - -She sat there a brief time, thinking; went over to the telephone -herself; even fingered the receiver; gave it up; busied herself hunting -a receptacle for Peter's roses, finally settling on an earthenware -crock. - - - - -CHAPTER XX--PETER GETS A NOTE - -|THE Worm walked slowly and thoughtfully across to Washington Square and -the old brick apartment building. - -Peter was there--a gloomy intense figure, bent over the desk at the -farther end of the nearly dark studio, his long face, the three little -pasteboard bank books before him, the pad on which he was figuring and -his thin hands illuminated in the yellow circle from the drop light on -the desk. Just behind him on the small table was his typewriter, and -there were sheets of paper scattered on the floor. He lifted his -face, peered at the Worm through his large glasses, then with nervous -quickness threw the bank books into a drawer which he locked. He tore -up the top sheet of the pad; noted pencil indentations on the sheet next -under it, and tore that up too. - -"Hello!" he remarked listlessly. - -"Hello!" replied the Worm. Adding with a touch of self-consciousness: -"Just had a cup of tea with Sue." - -"Over at her place?" - -The Worm nodded. - -"Any--any one else there?" - -"Zanin came in." - -Peter winced and whitened a little about the mouth; then suddenly got -up and with an exaggerated air of casualness set about picking up the -papers on the floor. This done he strode to the window and stared out -over the Square where hundreds of electric lights twinkled. Suddenly he -swung around. - -"It's a strain," he said in a suppressed, clouded voice. - -"Doubtless," murmured the Worm, reaching for the evening paper. - -"Zanin used to try to--to make love to her." - -Some effort must be made to stem this mounting current. "Oh, well," said -the Worm, rather hurriedly, "you're free from worry, Pete." - -"God--if I were!" muttered the eminent modernist. - -"But you are! Good lord, man, here I've just asked her to have dinner -with me, and she ducked. Wouldn't even eat with me." - -"But--" - -"But nothing! It was flatly because she is engaged to you." - -Peter thought this over and brightened. "But see here!" he cried--"I'm -not a Turk. I'm not trying to lock her up." - -The Worm was silent. - -Peter confronted him; spoke with vehemence. "Sue is free--absolutely. -I want her to be free. I wouldn't have it otherwise. Not for a -moment. It's absurd that she should hesitate about dining with you, -or--or"--this with less assurance--"with any man." - -Peter walked around the room, stopping again before the Worm who was now -sitting on the desk, looking over the evening paper. - -"Oh, come now!" said Peter. "Put up that paper. Listen to me. Here you -are, one of my oldest friends, and you make me out a Victorian monster -with the woman I love. Damn it, man, you ought to know me better! And -you ought to know Sue better. If her ideas are modern and free, mine -are, if anything, freer. Yes, they are! In a sense--in a sense--I go -farther than she does. She is marrying me because it is the thing she -wants to do. That's the only possible basis on which I would accept her -love. If that love ever dies".... Peter was suddenly all eloquence and -heroism. Self-convinced, all afire, he stood there with upraised arm. -And the Worm, rather fascinated, let his paper drop and watched the -man... "If that love ever dies," the impressive voice rang on, "no -matter what the circumstances, engaged, married, it absolutely does not -matter, Sue is free. Good God! You should know better--you, of all -people! You know me--do you suppose I would fasten on Sue, on that -adorable, inspired girl, the shackles of an old-fashioned property -marriage! Do you suppose I would have the hardihood to impose trammels -on that free spirit!" - -Carried away by his own climax Peter whirled, snatched up the desk -telephone, called Sue's number, waited tense as a statue for the first -sound of her voice, then said, instantly assuming the caressingly gentle -voice of the perfect lover: "Sue, dear, hello! How are you? Tired? Oh, -I'm sorry. Better get out somewhere. Wish I could come, but a job's a -job. I'll stick it out. Wait though! Here's Henry Bates with nothing to -do. I'm going to send him over to take you out--make you eat something -and then walk a bit. It's what you need, little girl. No, not a word! -I'm going to ring off now. He'll come right over. Good-by, dear." - -He put down the instrument, turned with an air of calm triumph. "All -right," he said commandingly. "Run along. Take her to the Muscovy. I may -possibly join you later but don't wait for me. I'll tell you right now, -we're not going to have any more of this fool notion that Sue isn't -free." With which he sat down at his typewriter and plunged into his -work. - -The Worm, taken aback, stared at him. Then, slowly, he smiled. He -didn't care particularly about the Muscovy. It was too self-consciously -"interesting"--too much like all the semi-amateur, short-lived little -basement restaurants that succeed one another with some rapidity in -the Greenwich Village section. The Worm was thinking again of Jim's -exceedingly Anglo-Saxon chop house and of those salty deep-sea oysters, -arrived this day. At the Muscovy you had Russian table-cloths and -napkins. The tables were too small there, and set too close together. -You couldn't talk. You couldn't think. He wondered if Peter hadn't -chosen the place, thus arbitrarily, because Sue's friends would be there -and would see her enacting this freedom of his. - -Peter was now pecking with a rather extraordinary show of energy at -the typewriter. The Worm, studying him, noted that his body was rigidly -erect and his forehead beaded with sweat, and began to realize that -the man was in a distinct state of nerves. It was no good talking to -him--not now. So, meekly but not unhumorously obeying orders, the Worm -set out. - -Sue met him at her door with a demure smile. - -"Where is it?" she asked--"Jim's?" - -He shook his head. His face, the tone of his voice, were impenetrable. -There was not so much as a glimmer of mischief in his quietly expressive -eyes; though Sue, knowing Henry Bates, looked there for it. "No," he -said, "we are to go to the Muscovy." - -Peter, meanwhile, continued his frenzy of work for a quarter-hour; then -slackened; finally stopped, sighed, ran his long fingers through his -hair, and gloomy again, turned wearily around to the desk, unlocked his -own particular drawer, brought out the three bank books and resumed -his figuring on the pad. If you could have looked over his shoulder -you would have seen that his pencil faltered; that he added one column, -slowly and laboriously, six or seven times, getting a different result -each time; and that then, instead of keeping at it or even throwing the -book back into the drawer, he fell to marking over the figures, shading -the down strokes, elaborating the dollar signs, enclosing the whole -column within a two-lined box and then placing carefully-rounded dots -in rows between the double lines. This done, he lowered his head and -sighted, to see if the rows were straight. They were not satisfactory. -He hunted through the top drawers and then on the bookcase for an -eraser.... - -There was a loud knock at the door. - -He started, caught his breath, then sank back, limp and white, in his -chair. At the third knocking he managed to get up and go to the door. It -was a messenger boy with a note. - -Peter held the envelope down in the little circle of yellow light on -the desk. It was addressed in Zarin's loose scrawl. The handwriting -definitely affected him. It seemed to touch a region of his nervous -system that had been worn quiveringly raw of late. He tore the envelope -open and unfolded the enclosure. There were two papers pinned together. -The top paper was a bill from the Interstellar people for eight hundred -and twenty dollars and fifty cents. The other was in Zanin's -hand--penciled; "It's getting beyond us, Mann. They offer to carry it -through for a sixty per cent, interest. It's a good offer. We've got to -take it. Come over to the Muscovy about eight, and I'll have copies of -the contract they offer. Don't delay, or the work will stop to-morrow." - -Peter carefully unpinned the two papers, laid them side by side on the -desk, smoothed them with his hands. Doing this, lie looked at his hands. -The right one he raised, held it out, watched it. It trembled. He then -experimented with the left. That trembled, too. He stood irresolute; -opened the three savings bank books--spread them beside the papers; -stared at the collection long and steadily until it began to exert a -hypnotic effect on his unresponsive mind. He finally stopped this; stood -up; stared at the Wall. "Still," ran his thoughts, "I seem to be fairly -calm. Perhaps as a creative artist, I shall gain something from the -experience. I shall see how men act in utter catastrophe. Come to think -of it, very few artists ever see a business failure at short range. -This, of course, borders _on_ tragedy. I am done for. But from the way I -am taking this now I believe I shall continue to be calm. I must tell -Sue, of course... it may make a difference.... I think I shall take one -stiff drink. But no more. Trust the one. It will steady my nerves. And I -won't look at those things any longer. After the drink I think I shall -take a walk. And I shall be deliberate. I shall simply think it out, -make my decision and abide by it." - - - - -CHAPTER XXI--OYSTERS AT JIM'S - -|SUE and the Worm had no more than seated themselves at the Muscovy -when Zanin came briskly in, hat in hand--still in the wrinkled old -suit, still wearing the gray sweater for a waistcoat--but keen of face, -buoyant even. He threaded his way between the tables, nodding here and -there in response to the cries of "Hello, Jacob!"--came straight to Sue, -and, with a casual greeting for the Worm, bent over and claimed her ear. - -"Sue," he said low; "I called up, then took a chance on finding you -here. I've sent the bill to Peter. And I've told him of the break in -our plans. The lawyer for the Interstellar people is coming with the new -contract--meets me up-stairs in the club. I've told Peter to be here -at eight. But I've got to know about you. Is there any danger that you -won't go through--finish the pictures?" - -"You mean--in case--" - -He nodded. "If Peter and I smash up. Whatever happens. I can't see ahead -myself. But the pictures are half done, and they're all you. It would be -serious if you--" - -Sue silenced him with a nervous glance about; compressed her lips; -turned her fork over and over on the table; then slowly nodded. "I'll -finish," she said very soberly. - -"All right," he replied. "I knew you would, of course. But I had to ask. -Things have changed so.... I'll be down later." - -Sue watched him, still turning the fork with tense fingers, as he -made his way to the door, paused for a word with one of the girl -waitresses--an impoverished young writer and idealist, Jewish, rather -pretty, who had played with them at the Crossroads--and finally -disappeared in the hall, turning back toward the stairway that led up to -the rooms of the Free woman's Club. - -The Worm was studying the menu. He waited until her eyes and her -thoughts returned to the table, then looked up at her with a quiet grin. -"How about food, Sue?" said he. - -She gazed at him, collected her thoughts, looked down at the card. Then -she made an effort to smile. - -"Sorry, Henry--I've lost my appetite." She pressed the edge of the card -against her pursed lips. "Henry, let's get out--go over to Jim's." - -He shook his head. "We can't," he said. Then he saw her gaze narrow -intently, over his shoulder--so intently that he turned. - -Peter was standing in the doorway, peering about the room--a repressed, -elaborately self-contained Peter. His mouth drooped at the corners. The -lines that extended downward from his nose were deeper than usual, had -something the appearance of being carved in a gray marble face. - -Peter's gaze--he seemed to find it difficult to focus his eyes, was -laborious about it--finally rested on their table. Slowly he got through -the crowd, approaching them. He jostled one of the girl waiters; and -turning, apologized with rather extraordinary formality. The girl -glanced after him, curious. - -The Worm looked around, perceived an unoccupied chair at a neighboring -table, lifted it over the heads of his neighbors and set it down beside -his own. Peter dropped into it, saying, "I'm sorry to disturb you two... -something has come up." The Worm found it rather uncomfortable. His -first impulse was to withdraw and let Peter and Sue talk. But people -were looking at them; there were audible whispers; he decided to do -nothing conspicuous. He sat back in his chair and studied the menu -again. "I'll know the thing by heart pretty soon!" he thought. - -Peter leaned forward, toward Sue. She was watching him calmly, the -Worm thought; but she was a little hushed. There was no escaping the -conversation that followed. Peter managed to keep his voice fairly low; -but it was plain that he barely realized where he was. The whole engine -of his mind--racing now at several thousand R. P. M.--was headed inward. - -"We'll have to quit the pictures, Sue, dear. I can't tell you the whole -story now--not here--but Zanin has absolutely broken faith. He has -wrecked me... not that I mind that... it's the crookedness of the -thing... the ideals he professed... he's sold us out, it's a dirty -commercial scheme after all that he's dragged you into."... The inner -pressures were evident now in Peter's voice. It was still low, but it -shook and came out jerkily and huskily. He was stopping frequently to -swallow. - -Sue's fingers strayed toward the fork; turned it slowly. Her eyes -followed her fingers. A waitress came toward them, stood unnoticed and -turned away, exchanging an amused glance with friends at the next table. - -"It's a complete smash," Peter went on. "Any way you look at it, it's a -smash. There's just that last step to take--we must get out." - -"Please--" Sue murmured, "not here!" - -"But, Sue--" - -"Don't, Peter. We can talk later." - -"But there's nothing to say." Now the Worm caught in his voice Peter's -uncertainty of her. "Is there, Sue?" - -She turned and turned the fork. Peter's eyes were fastened on her face, -hungrily, abjectly. She slowly nodded. - -"But, Sue, you and I--" - -She drew a long breath, faced him. "I've got to finish the pictures, -Peter." - -"Sue, you can't--" - -"I simply won't talk about this out here. But it would wreck Jacob if I -stopped now." - -It seemed to the Worm that Peter had to make a desperate effort to -comprehend this. His brows were knit, his eyes wandering. Finally he -said: "But, Sue, good God! You don't understand. Zanin has wrecked me." - -"I'm not sure about that. If we finish the pictures. If we don't--yes." - -Peter's hands gripped the edge of the table. "Sue--Zanin has been -talking with you!" - -"Please, Peter--not so loud!" - -"Has he? Answer me!" - -Slowly she nodded. - -"Are you playing fair with me?" - -"Oh, Peter--yes! I am." - -"You are still engaged to be my wife?" - -"Yes. Please, Peter...." - -"Then"--the moment Henry Bates had shrewdly, painfully waited as he -watched the man, came now; the suppressions that had been struggling -within Peter's breast broke bounds; his voice suddenly rang out--"then, -I forbid you to go on!" - -Sue paled; seemed to sink down a little in her chair; knit her brows; -said nothing. - -The room was very still. Even the Greenwich Village group was startled, -hushed, by the queer sense of impending drama that filled the room. - -During the long hush several girls went out, hurriedly. Others struggled -unsuccessfully to make talk. One laughed. - -Peter looked around with half-hearted defiance, then dropped his eyes. -"Evidently," he said, addressing the Worm with queer precise formality, -"the thing for me to do is to go. I am not desired here." But he sat -motionless. - -It was at this point that Zanin came in. He saw Peter, crowded bruskly -across the room, laid a legal appearing document on the table at Peter's -elbow and said: "Look this over, Peter, and meet me up-stairs a little -later. Their man is coming. They give us no choice--we must sign -to-night." - -Peter squared around at the first tones of the strong, slightly husky -voice, drew in his chin, scowled. It appeared to the Worm that he was -making a desperate effort to look dignified. But at the last words, -Zanin dropped a large hand on Peter's shoulder. That was what made the -tremble; or rather what set it off. - -I have explained that the Muscovy occupied a basement. The ceiling was -low. The tables--small ones around the walls and two longer ones across -the center space with their chairs (common kitchen chairs, they were) -filled the room except for an opening near the door. In the opening, -at one side of the door, was the small table that served as a cashier's -desk. It was covered with slips of paper and little heaps of coin and -some bank notes under an iron paper-weight. The whole in charge of a -meek girl with big spectacles. - -There were twenty-five or thirty persons in the room--mostly women and -girls. Of the four or five men, two, in a party near the door, were -painters with soft curling beards; the others, young anarchists and -talkers, were seated over in the farther corner near one of the barred -front windows. - -A feature of the scene that Henry Bates will never forget was that Peter -first rose, very deliberately, produced an eye-glass case from an -inner pocket and carefully put his glasses away. Then he sprang at -Zanin--apparently not striking cleanly with clenched fists but clawing -and slapping, and shouting breathlessly. I suppose that in every man -who has been a boy and a youth there is a strain of vulgarity, innate -or acquired. It is exhibited when reason flees. Reason had certainly, -at last, fled from Peter. For what he was shouting was this----over and -over--"A Jew won't fight! A Jew won't fight!" - -In the surprise of this first rush Zanin retreated, sparring -ineffectually; backed into the corner of a table; crashed over it; went -down with it to the floor amid broken dishes, steaming food and the -wreckage of a chair. Two young women were thrown also. One of them -screamed; the other appeared to be stunned, and the Worm somehow got -to her, lifted her up and supported her out the service door to the -kitchen. - -[Illustration: 0245] - -When he returned the panic was on. Gasping and shrieking, various -hitherto calm young women whom nothing in life could surprise, were -fighting past one another for the door. But one young man, pasty-faced, -longish hair--name of Waters Coryell--went through the struggling group -like a thin tornado, tearing aside the women that blocked his way, -symbolizing, in a magnificent burst of unselfconscious energy, the -instinct of self-preservation, with a subconscious eye, doubtless to -later achievements in self-expression.... The Worm saw his flight -and smiled. He had heard Waters Coryell expound the doctrine that a man -should do what he wants to do. "He wants to get out," mused the Worm. - -Peter did not at once leap upon the fallen Zanin. He first cast about -for a weapon. At Sue's elbow was a large water pitcher. He seized this -and for a moment stood over his opponent, blandishing it and again -shouting, "A Jew won't fight!" He was in this attitude when the Worm -returned from the kitchen. - -The room was nearly empty now. Over at the door, the meek little cashier -with the big spectacles was calling out in a sharp small voice, "Pay -your checks, please! Pay your checks!" And one girl, her eyes glassy -with fright, automatically responding to the suggestion, was fumbling in -her wrist bag, saying, "I don't seem to have the change." - -The Worm hesitated for a moment between getting Sue out and trying to -stop the fight. Sue had pushed back her chair a little way but was still -sitting there. - -At this moment Zanin, who was trying to draw himself away on his -elbows to a point where he could get up in reasonable safety, saw an -opportunity to trip Peter. Instantly he put the idea into effect. Peter -went down. The water pitcher was shattered on the floor. The two men -clinched and rolled over and over among the chairs and against the legs -of another table. - -The Worm turned to Sue. "You'd better get out," he said. - -She was quite white. "I suppose," she managed to say, "I'm no use here." - -"Not a bit." - -He took her arm and steadied her until she was clear of the wreckage. -Every one else had got out now excepting the girl with the big -spectacles. She stood flattened against the wall, apparently all but -unable to breathe. As Sue Wilde passed, however, she gasped out, "Check, -please!" - -The Worm snorted, caught Sue's arm again and rushed her out and up -the steps to the sidewalk. Out here most of those who had been in the -basement stood about in groups. Others, street children and loungers, -were appearing. The situation was ripening swiftly into a street crowd -with its inevitable climax of police interference. "Move away!" said -the Worm to Sue. "As far as the Square." And he spoke to others whom he -knew. The crowd thinned. Then making a wry face in the dim light, the -Worm headed back down the steps, muttering, "Physical prowess is not my -specialty, but..." - -He carefully shut the street door after him and turned the key. The -little cashier was on the stairs now, crouching low against the wall. -The Worm half listened for a "Check, please!" as he came down the -corridor; but she was silent. There was, too, a suspicious, silence in -the dining-room. The Worm hurried to the door. - -There, just within the door, stood Peter. His right coat sleeve had been -ripped nearly off, at the shoulder seam, and hung down over his hand. He -was fumbling at it with the left hand, frantically trying, first to roll -it back, then to tear it off. Zanin, over against the farther wall, was -getting heavily to his feet. He paused only an instant, then charged -straight at Peter. - -One glance at the eminent playwright made it plain that his frenzy -already was tempered with concern. He had made, it appeared, a vital -miscalculation. This particular Jew _would_ fight--was, apparently, only -just beginning to fight. There was blood on Zanin's cheek, trickling -slowly down from a cut just under the eye. His clothes, like Peter's, -were covered with the dirt of the floor. His eyes were savage. - -Peter again groped blindly for a weapon. His hand, ranging over the -cashier's table, closed on the iron paper-weight. He threw it at the -onrushing Zanin, missed his head by an inch; caught desperately at a -neat little pile of silver quarters; threw these; then Zanin struck him. - -The thing was no longer a comedy. Zanin, a turbulent hulk of a man, was -roused and dangerous. The Worm caught his arm and shoulder, shouted at -him, tried to wrench the two apart. Zanin threw him off with such force -that his head struck hard against the wall. The Worm saw stars. - -The fighters reeled, locked together, back into the dining-room, knocked -over the cashier's table and fell on it. Zanin gave a groan of pain and -closed his big hands on Peter's neck. - -The Worm ran up the stairs. Three men were sitting, very quiet, in the -reading-room of the Free-woman's Club. Waters Coryell dominated. - -"For God's sake," said the Worm quietly, "come down!" - -Waters Coryell, who professed anarchism, surveyed him coolly. "The thing -to do," he replied, "obviously, is to telephone the police." - -"Telephone your aunt!" said the Worm, and ran back down-stairs. - -Peter and Zanin were still on the floor, at grips. But their strength -seemed to have flagged. One fact, noted with relief, was that Zanin had -not yet choked Peter to death. They were both purple of face; breathing -hard; staring at each other. Some of Zanin's still trickling blood had -transferred itself to Peter's face and mixed with the dirt there. - -The Worm caught up a chair, swung it over his head and cried, in deadly -earnest, "You two get up or I'll smash both your heads!" - -They glared at each other for a moment. Then Zanin managed to catch -enough breath to say-- - -"But the man's insane!" - -Peter gulped. "I am not insane! Nothing of the kind!" - -"Get up," commanded the Worm. - -Very slowly, eying each other, they obeyed. Zanin brushed off his -clothes as well as he could with his hands; then, for the first time -conscious of the blood on his face, mopped at it with his handkerchief. -Peter went off under the low-hanging center chandelier and examined with -a pained expression, his ruined coat. - -There were steps and voices on the stairs. She of the big spectacles -appeared in the doorway. - -"I beg your pardon," observed Peter with breathless formality, "but have -you got a pin?" - -She stared at him; then at Zanin, finally at the Worm. - -"There's a gentleman up-stairs," she said mechanically in a lifeless -voice. - -The Worm went up. A businesslike young man was standing in the upper -hall, looking about him with mild curiosity. - -"Whom did you wish to see?" asked the Worm. - -"Mr. Zanin and Mr. Mann." - -"Oh--you must be the attorney for the Interstellar people." - -"I am." - -"Come this way," said the Worm with calm, and ushered him down the -stairs and into the dining-room. - -Sue was sitting alone on a bench in Washington Square. She saw Henry -Bates approaching and rose hurriedly to meet him. - -"It's all over," said he cheerfully. - -"But, Henry--tell me--what on earth!" - -"No particular damage beyond what court plaster and Peter's tailor can -fix up." - -"But--but---how is it over so soon? What are they doing?" - -"When I left, Zanin was entertaining that attorney chap." - -"And Peter?" - -"Down on his hands and knees trying to find the contract." - -"Is he--will he--" - -"Sign it? Yes. They want you to sign, too. But I told them you'd do it -in the morning. You're to have a ten per cent, interest--Zanin and Peter -each fifteen." - -"But I don't want--" - -"May as well take it. You've earned it.... Look here, Sue, has it -occurred to you that we--you and I--haven't had a morsel to eat yet?" - -She started in genuine surprise; looked up at him with an intent -expression that he could not, at the moment, fathom; then suddenly threw -back her head. - -"Henry'," she said, a ring in her voice, "I--I'm not engaged any -more--not to anybody! I want--" she gave a slow little laugh--"some -oysters." - -"At Jim's!" he cried. - -He slipped his arm through hers. Free-hearted as the birds that -slumbered in the trees overhead they strolled over to the congenial -oyster bar. - -So passed The Nature Film Producing Co., Inc., Jacob Zanin, Pres't. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII--A BACHELOR AT LARGE - -|YOU are to picture Washington Square at the beginning of June. Very -early in the morning--to be accurate, eight-fifty. Without the old -bachelor apartment building, fresh green trees, air steaming and -quivering with radiation and evaporation from warm wet asphalt, rumbling -autobusses, endless streams of men and girls hurrying eastward and -northward to the day's work or turning into the commercial-looking -University building at our right, and hard at it, the inevitable hurdy -gurdy; within, seventh floor front, large dim studio, Hy Lowe buttoning -his collar and singing lustily--= - -```"I want si-_imp_-athee, - -```Si-_imp_-athee, just _symp_-ah-thee!"= - -The collar buttoned, Hy, still roaring, clasped an imaginary partner -to his breast and deftly executed the bafflingly simple step of the -hesitation waltz over which New York was at the moment, as Hy would -put it, dippy. Hy's eyes were heavy and red and decorated with the dark -circles of tradition, but his feet moved lightly, blithely. Hy could -dance on his own tombstone--and he would dance well. - -At one of the two front windows Henry Bates, of _The Courier_, otherwise -the Worm, in striped, buttonless pajamas caught across the chest with -a safety-pin, gazed down at the Square while feeling absently along the -sill for the cream bottle. - -The third member of our little group of bachelors, Peter Ericson Mann, -was away; down at Atlantic City, working on something. Also nursing a -broken heart. For everybody knew now that he and Sue Wilde were not to -be married. - -The desk served as breakfast table; an old newspaper as cloth. There -were flaked cereal in bowls, coffee from the percolator on the bookcase, -rolls from a paper sack. - -The Worm lingered over his coffee. Hy gulped his, glancing frequently at -his watch, propped against the inkstand. - -"Oh," observed the Worm, pausing in his task of cleaning his pipe with a -letter opener, "I nearly forgot. A lady called up. While you were in the -hath tub." - -"This morning?" Hy's face went discreetly blank. - -"Yes, Miss--Miss--sounded like Banana." - -"Miss Sorana." Hy's eyelids fluttered an instant. Then he lit a -cigarette and was again his lightly imperturbable self. "What an ungodly -hour!" he murmured, "for Silvia, of all girls. But she knows she mustn't -call me at the office." - -The Worm regarded his roommate with discerning, mildly humorous eyes. -"Who, may I ask, is Silvia? And what is she?" - -Hy missed the allusion. "If _The Evening Earth_ were ever to come into -possession of my recent letters which I devoutly hope and trust they -won't"--Hy staged a shudder--"they would undoubtedly refer to her as 'an -actress.' Just like that. An actress." - -"Hm!" mused the Worm, "it's in writing already, eh!" - -Hy shrugged his shoulders. "The old world has to go round," said he. -Then his eyes grew dreamy. "But, my boy, my boy! You should see her--the -darling of the gods! Absolutely the darling of the gods! Met her at the -Grand Roof. Good lord! figured in cold calendar arithmetic, it isn't -eight days. But then, they say eternity is but a moment." - -"A dancing case?" queried the Worm. - -Hy nodded. "After ten steps, my son, we knew! Absolutely knew! She knew. -I knew. We were helpless--it had to be." - -At this point Hy pocketed his watch and settled back to smoke -comfortably. He always bolted his breakfast by the watch; he always -chatted or read the paper afterward; he was always late at the office. - -The Worm was studying him quizzically. "Hy," he said, "how do you do -it?" - -"Do what?" queried Hy, struggling with a smile of self-conscious -elation. - -"Oh, come! You know. This!" The Worm gestured inclusively with his pipe. -"Ten days ago it was that Hilda Hansen person from Wisconsin. Two weeks -before that--" - -Hy raised his hand. "Go easy with the dead past, my son." - -The Worm pressed on. "Morally, ethically, you are doubtless open to -criticism. As are the rest of us. That is neither here nor there. What -I want to know is, how do you do it? You're not beautiful. You're not -witty--though the younger among 'em might think you were, for the first -few hours. But the ladies, God bless 'em!--overlooking many men -of character and charm, overlooking even myself--come after you by -platoons, regiments, brigades. They fairly break in your door. What is -it? How do you do it?" - -"It's a gift," said Hy cheerily, "plus experience." - -The Worm was slowly shaking his head. "It's not experience," he said. -"That's a factor, but that's not it. You hit it the first time. It's a -gift--perhaps plus eyelashes." - -"But, my boy, I sometimes fail. Take the case you were about -to mention--Betty Deane. I regard Betty as my most notable -miscalculation--my Dardanelles." - -"Not for a minute, Hy. As I've heard the story, Betty was afraid of -you, ran away, married in a panic. She, a self-expresser of the -self-expressers, a seeker of the Newest Freedom, marries a small -standpatter who makes gas engines. To escape your hypnotic influence. -No--I can't concede it. That, sir, was a tribute to your prowess, no -less." - -Hy assumed an expression of modesty. "If you know all about it, why -ask me? I don't know. A man like me, reasonably young, reasonably -hardworking, reasonably susceptible--well, good lord! I need the -feminine--" - -"I'm not puzzled about the demand," said the Worm, "but the supply." - -"Oh, come! There aren't so many. I did have that little flare-tip with -Betty. She promised to go away with me on the night boat. She didn't -turn up; I took that trip alone." - -"It got as far as that, eh?" - -"It did. Whatever her reasons she skipped back to her home town and -married the maker of gas engines. The Hilda Hansen matter caught me on -the rebound. There couldn't ever have been anything in that, anyway. The -girl's a leaner. Hasn't even a protective crust. Some kind uncle ought -to take her and her little wall-paper designs back to Wisconsin. But -this is--different!" He fumbled rather excitedly in his pocket and -produced a letter--pages and pages of it, closely written m a nervous -hand that was distinguished mainly by unusually heavy down strokes of -a stub pen. He glanced eagerly through it, coloring as his eyes fell on -this phrase and that. "You know, I'd almost like to read you a little of -it. Damn it, the girl's got something--courage, fire, personality! She's -perfectly wild--a pagan woman! She's--" - -The Worm raised an arresting pipe. "Don't," he said dryly. "Never do -that! Besides, your defense, while fairly plausible, accounts for only -about three months of your life." - -Slightly crestfallen, Hy read on in silence. Then he turned back and -started at the beginning. Finally, looking up and catching the Worm's -interested, critical eyes on him, he stuffed the document back into his -pocket, lit a new cigarette, got up, found his hat and stick, stood a -moment in moody silence, sighed deeply and went out. - -The telephone rang. As the Worm drew the instrument toward him and -lifted the receiver the door opened and Hy came charging back. - -The voice was feminine. "Is Mr. Lowe there?" it said. - -"Gimme that phone!" breathed Hy, reaching for it. - -The Worm swung out of his reach. "No," he said into the transmitter, -"he's gone out. Just a moment ago. Would you like to leave any message?" -And dodging behind the desk, he grinned at Hy. - -That young man was speechless. - -"Who did you say?" Thus the Worm into the telephone. "Mrs. Bixbee?" -He spoke swiftly to Hy. "It's funny. I've heard the voice. But Mrs. -Bixbee!" Then into the telephone. "Yes, this is Mr. Bates. Oh, you were -Betty Deane? Yes, indeed! Wait a moment. I think he has just come in -again. I'll call him." - -But at that name Hy bolted. The door slammed after him. The Worm could -hear him running along the outer corridor and down the stairs. He had -not stopped to ring for the elevator. - -"No," said the Worm now unblushingly, "I was mistaken. He isn't here. -That was the floor maid." As he pushed the instrument back on the desk, -he sighed and shook his head. "That's it," he said aloud, with humility. -"It's a gift." - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII--THE BUZZER - -|NEW YORK, as much as Paris or Peking, is the city of bizarre contrasts. -One such is modestly illustrated in the life of Hy Lowe. - -Hy hurried on this as on every working morning eastward across Broadway -and through Astor Place to the large five-story structure, a block in -length, near the heart of the Bowery, that had been known for seventy -years as Scripture House. Tract societies clustered within the -brownstone walls, publishers of hymn books and testaments, lecture -bureaus, church extension groups, temperance and anti-cigarette -societies, firms of lady typists, and with these, flocks of -shorter-lived concerns whose literature was pious and whose aims were -profoundly commercial. Long years before, when men wore beavers and -stocks and women wore hoopskirts, the building had symbolized the -organized evangelical forces that were to galvanize and remake a corrupt -world. - -But the world had somehow evaded this particular galvanizing process. -It had plunged wildly on the little heretical matter of applied science; -which in its turn had invaded the building in the form of electric light -and power and creakily insecure elevators. The Trusts had come, and -Labor Unions and Economic Determinism--even the I. W, W. and the mad -Nietzschean propaganda of the Greenwich Village New Russianists. Not to -mention War. Life had twisted itself into puzzling shapes. New York -had followed farther and farther up-town its elevated roads, subways, -steel-built sky-scrapers and amazing palaces of liquors and lobsters, -leaving the old building not even the scant privilege of dominating the -slums and factories that had crept gradually to and around it. And now -as a last negligent insult, a very new generation--a confused generation -of Jews, Italians, Irish, Poles, Slavs, serving as bookkeepers, -stenographers, messengers, door girls, elevator boys--idled and flirted -and enacted their little worldly comedies and tragedies within the very -walls of Scripture House--practised a furtive dance step or two in the -dim stock rooms, dreamed of broiled lobsters (even of liquors) while -patient men with white string neckties and routine minds sat in inner -offices and continued the traditional effort to remake that forgotten -old world. - -But if the vision had failed, many a successful enterprise, then and -now, thrived under the cover of Scripture House. One had thrived there -for thirty years--the independent missionary weekly known to you as _My -Brother's Keeper_. This publication was the "meal ticket" to which Hy, -at rare intervals, referred. On the ground glass of his office door were -the words, lettered in black, "Assistant Editor." To this altitude had -eight years of reporting and editing elevated Hy Lowe. The compensating -honorarium was forty-five dollars a week. Not a great amount for one -whose nature demanded correct clothing, Broadway dinners, pretty girls -and an occasional taxicab; still a bachelor who lives inexpensively as -to rooms, breakfasts and lunches and is not too hard on his clothes can -go reasonably far on forty-five dollars, even in New York. - -On this as on other mornings Hy, after a smile and a wink for the -noticeably pretty little telephone girl in the outer office, slid along -the inner corridor dose to the wood and glass partition. Though the -Walrus' open doorway dominated the corridor, there was always a chance -of slipping in unnoted. - -He opened and closed his own door very softly; whipped off and hung up -his street coat; donned the old black alpaca that was curiously bronzed -from the pockets down by thousands of wipings of purple ink: and within -twenty seconds was seated at his desk going through the morning's mail. - -A buzzer sounded--on the partition just above his head. Hy started; -turned and stared at the innocent little electrical machine. His color -mounted. He compressed his lips. He picked up the editorial shears and -deliberately slipped one blade under the insulated wires that led away -from the buzzer. - -Again the sound! Hy's fingers relaxed. He snorted, tossed the shears -on the desk, strode to the door, paused to compose his features; then -wearing the blankly innocent expression that meant forty-five dollars a -week, walked quietly into the big room at the end of the corridor where, -behind a flat mahogany desk seven feet square, sat the Reverend Hubbell -Harkness Wilde, D. D. - -On the wall behind him lettered in gold leaf on black enamel, hung -the apothegm (not from the eloquent pen of Doctor Wilde)--"It is more -blessed to give than to receive." Beneath, in a long mahogany bookcase, -were hundreds of volumes, every one inserted in gratitude and admiration -to the editor of _My Brothers Keeper_. The great desk was heaped with -books, manuscripts, folders of correspondence. Beside it, pencil warily -poised, sat Miss Hardwick, who for more than twenty years had followed -Doctor Wilde about these offices--during most of every working day -taking down his most trivial utterances, every word, to be transcribed -later on the typewriter by her three six-dollar-a-week girls. It was -from the resulting mass of verbiage that Miss Hardwick and the doctor -dug out and arranged the weekly sermon-editorials that you read when you -were a Sunday-school pupil and that your non-citified aunts and uncles -are reading in book form to this day. They were a force, these sermons. -Make no mistake about that! They had a sensational vigor that you -rarely heard from the formal pulpit. The back-cover announcements of -feature-sermons to come were stirring in themselves. If your mind be -"practical," scorning all mystical theorizings, let me pass on to -you the inside information that through sermons and advertisements of -sermons and sensational full-page appeals in display type this man whom -Hy light-mindedly dismissed with the title of "the Walrus" had collected -more than two million dollars in twenty years for those mission stations -of his in Africa or Madagascar (or whenever they were). That is slightly -upward of a hundred thousand a year in actual money, as a net average! - -We have had a momentary glimpse of Doctor Wilde. That was at the -Crossroads Theater, where his runaway daughter was playing a boy in -Jacob Zanin's playlet, _Any Street_. But the Walrus was then out of his -proper setting--was merely a grim hint of a forgotten Puritanism in that -little Bohemian world of experimental compliance with the Freudian Wish. - -We see him in his proper setting here. The old-fashioned woodcut of him -that was always in the upper left corner of sermon or announcement -was made in 1886---that square, young, strong face, prominent nose, -penetrating eyes. Even then it flattered him. The man now sitting at the -enormous desk was twenty-nine years older. The big hooked nose was -still there. The pale-green eyes were still a striking feature; but -they looked tired now. There was the strip of whisker on each cheek, -close-clipped, tinged now with gray. He was heavier in neck and -shoulders. There were deep lines about the wide, thin, orator's mouth. -Despite the nose and eyes there was something yielding about that mouth; -something of the old politician who has learned to temper strength -with craft, who has learned, too, that human nature moves and functions -within rather narrow limits and is assailed by subtle weaknesses. It was -an enigmatic face. Beneath it were low turnover collar, the usual white -string tie and a well-worn black frock coat. - -Doctor Wilde was nervous this morning. His eyes found it difficult to -meet those of his mild-faced assistant in the old alpaca office coat. - -"Miss Hardwick--you may go, please!" Thus Doctor Wilde; and he threw out -his hands in a nervous gesture. - -For an instant, sensing some new tension in the office atmosphere, Hy -caught himself thinking of Sue Wilde. She had a trick of throwing out -her hands like that. Only she did it with extraordinary grace. In certain -ways they were alike, this eccentric gifted man and his eccentric -equally gifted daughter. Not in all particulars; for Sue had charm. -"Must get it from her mother's side," mused Hy. He knew that the mother -was dead, that the house from which Sue had fled to Greenwich Village -and Art and Freedom was now presided over by a second wife who dressed -surprisingly well, and whose two children--little girls--were on -occasions brought into the office. - -His reverie ended abruptly. Miss Hardwick had gathered up her note-books -and pencils; was rising now; and as she passed out, released in Hy's -direction one look that almost frightened him. It was a barbed shaft of -bitter malevolence, oddly confused with trembling, incredible triumph. - -"Sit down, please!" It was Doctor Wilde's voice. Hy sat down in the -chair that was always kept for him across the huge desk from the doctor. -That gentleman had himself risen, creaked over to the door, was closing -it securely. - -What had that queer look meant? From Miss Hardwick of all people! To -Hy she had been hardly more than an office fixture. But in that -brief instant she had revealed depths of hatred, malignant -jealousy--something! - -The doctor sank heavily into his own chair. Hy, mystified, watched him -and waited. The man reached for a paper-weight--a brass model of his -first mission house from Africa or Madagascar or somewhere--and placed -it before him on top of the unopened morning's mail, moved it this way, -then a little that way and looked at it critically. Hy, more and more -startled, a thought hypnotized, leaned forward on the desk and gazed at -that little brass house. Finally the doctor spoke: - -"I have an unpleasant duty--but it is not a matter that I can lightly -pass over--" - -Hy paled a little, knit his brows, stared with increasing intensity at -that mission house of brass. - -"For a long time, Mr. Lowe, I have felt that your conduct was not--" - -"Oh," thought Hy, in a daze, "my conduct was not--" - -"--was not--well, in keeping with your position." - -"With my position." Hy's numb mind repeated. - -"This is not a matter of a particular act or a particular occasion, -Mr. Lowe. For a long time it has been known to me that you sought -undesirable companions, that you have been repeatedly seen in--in -Broadway resorts." - -Hy's mind was stirring awake now, darting this way and that like a -frightened mouse. Some one had been talking to the doctor--and very -recently. The man was a coward in office matters; he had been goaded to -this. The "for a long time," so heavily repeated, was of course a verbal -blind. Could it have been--not Miss Hardwick. Then Hy was surprised to -hear his own voice: - -"But this is a charge, Doctor Wilde! A charge should be definite." The -words came mechanically. Hy must have read them somewhere. "I surely -have a right to know what has bcen said about me." - -"I don't know that it is necessary to be specific," said the doctor, -apparently now that the issue was joined, finding his task easier. - -"I must insist!" cried Hy, on his feet now. He was thinking--"What has -she told him? What does she know? What does she know!" - -"Sit down!" said Doctor Wilde. - -Hy sat down. His chief moved the mission house a trifle to square it -with the edge of the desk. - -"To mention only one occasion," went on the doctor's voice--"though many -are known to me, I am well informed regarding the sort of life you are -known to be leading. You see, Mr. Lowe, you must understand that the -office atmosphere of _My Brother's Keeper_ is above reproach. Ability -alone will not carry a man here. There are standards finer and truer -than--" - -A rhetorical note was creeping into the man's voice. He turned -instinctively to sec if Miss Hardwick was catching the precious words -as they fell from his lips; then with his eyes on her empty chair he -floundered. - -The telephone rang. Hy, with alacrity grown out of long practise in -fending for his chief, reached for it. - -"Oh, Mr. Lowe--" It was the voice of the pretty little telephone girl: -"It's a lady! She simply won't be put off! Could you--" - -"Tell him," said Hy with cold solemnity, "that I am in an important -Conference." - -"I did tell her that, Mr. Lowe." - -"Very well--ask him to leave his number. I can not be disturbed now." - -He hung up the receiver. "Doctor Wilde," he said in the same Solemn -tone. "I realize of course that you are asking for my resignation. But -first I must know the charge against me. There has been an attack on my -character. I have the right to demand full knowledge of it." - -"To mention only one occasion," said the doctor, as if unaware of the -interruption, still fussing with the mission house, "you were seen, as -recently as last evening, leaving a questionable restaurant in company -with a still more questionable young woman." - -So that was all he knew! Hy breathed a very little more easily. Then -the telephone rang again, and Hy's overstrained nerves jumped like mad. -"Very well," said he to the pretty telephone girl, "put him on my wire." -And to his chief: "You will have to excuse me, Doctor. This appears to -be important." He rose with extreme dignity and left the room. - -Once within his own office he stood clinging to the door-knob, breathing -hard. It was all over! He was fired. He must begin life again--like -General Grant. His own telephone bell was ringing frantically. At first -he hardly heard it. Finally he pulled himself together and moved toward -the desk. It would be Betty, of course. She ought to have more sense! -Why hadn't she stayed up-state with that new husband of hers, anyway! -Wasn't life disastrous enough without a very much entangled, contrite -Betty on his own still more entangled hands. - -But the voice was not that of Betty. Nor was it the voice of Silvia. -It was a soft little voice, melodious, hesitating. It was familiar, yet -unfamiliar. - -"Oh," it said, "is that you? I've had such a hard time getting you." - -"I'm sorry!" breathed Hy. Who was she? - -"Are you awfully busy?" - -Hy hesitated. Deep amid the heaped and smoking runs of his life a little -warm thing was stirring. It was the very instinct for adventure. He -looked grimly about the room, to be his office no longer. He didn't care -particularly what happened now. His own voice even took on something of -the strange girl's softness. - -"Not so awfully," said he. Then groping for words added: "Where are you -now?" - -"Up at the Grand Central." - -"Goodness! You're not going away--now?" - -"Yes--going home. I feel awfully bad about it." - -A silence intervened. Then this from Hy: - -"You--you're not alone up there?" - -"All alone." - -What a charmingly plaintive little voice it was, anyway! The healthy -color was returning to Hy's cheeks. - -"Well," said he--"well, say--" - -"Yes?" she murmured. - -"How long--when does your train go?" - -"Oh, could you? I didn't dare ask--you seemed so busy!" - -"I could be there in--well, under fifteen minutes." - -"Oh, good. I've got--let me see--nearly half an hour." - -"Be by the clock in the main waiting-room Good-by!" - -Hy slammed down the receiver; tore off the alpaca coat and stuffed it -into the waste basket; got into his street coat; observed the editorial -shears on the desk; seized them, cut the buzzer wires, noted with -satisfaction the nick he made in one blade; threw the shears to the -floor and rushed from the office. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV--THE WILD FAGAN PERSON - -|AT the flower store in the station he bought a red carnation for his -lapel and walked briskly toward the big clock. - -A slim girl was there at the inquiry desk, very attractively dressed. -His pulse bounded. She turned a forlornly pretty face and he saw that it -was Hilda Hansen of Wisconsin. - -Their hands met. They wandered off toward the dim corridor where the -telephones are. - -"It was dear of you to come," said she rather shyly. "I shall feel -better now. I was beginning to think--well, that you didn't like me very -well." - -"Hilda--that's not fair!" he murmured. Murmured, IF the whole truth were -told, rather blithely. For Hilda was pretty. Her soft dependence was the -sweetest flattery. Her simple, easily satisfied mind was a relief after -certain slightly more desperate adventures. And so, when he said, "I'm -sorry you're going, Hilda. Is it for long?" he spoke as sincerely as is -commonly done. - -"For good!" she blurted out in reply to this; and the tears came. He -took her arm and walked her farther down the corridor. The little -story was tumbling out now, helter skelter. Her father had stopped her -allowance, ordered her home. She was leaving forever the freedom of dear -old Greenwich Village. Naturally Hy kissed her. - -He kissed her again, right out on the train platform, with belated -passengers elbowing by and porters looking on. It was Hy's little -sacrament of freedom. He could kiss them now--in public--as he chose! -For he was fired. No more gloomy old office! No more of the gliding Miss -Hardwick! No more of the doctor's oratory! No more of that damn buzzer! - -The thing to do, of course, was to go back and pack up his belongings; -but he couldn't bring himself to it. So he stayed out until lunch time, -filling in the odd hour with an eleven o'clock movie show. He lunched -expensively and alone at the club, off a porterhouse steak with -mushrooms, potatoes "au gratin," creamed spinach, musty ale in pewter, -romaine salad, Camembert cheese with toasted biscuit and black coffee. - -When he reentered his office, who should be sitting there but the Worm. -Before he could overcome a slight embarrassment and begin the necessary -process of telling his story, a heavy crushing step sounded in the -corridor, passed the door, went on into the big room in the corner. - -The Worm rose abruptly. - -"Isn't that the Walrus?" he asked. - -"The same," said Hy. - -"I've got to see him. Will you take me in?" - -"Oh, sit down! I can tell you more than he can." - -"Perhaps, but at another time." - -Hy emerged from his self-absorption at this point sufficiently to -observe that the Worm, usually smiling and calm, was laboring under some -excitement. - -"All right," said he, "come along!" And quite light of heart, afraid of -nothing now, he led the Worm in and introduced him as, "My friend, Mr. -Bates of _The 'Courier_." Then, hearing his telephone ringing again, he -hurried back to his own office. - -It would be Betty, of course. Well, as far as the office was concerned, -it didn't matter now. She could call! Anybody could call.... He picked -up the receiver. - -"Oh," he murmured--"hello, Silvia! Wait a moment." He got up and closed -the door. "All right," he said then. "What is it, little girl?" - -"Oh!" said she, "thank God, I've found you! Hy, something dreadful has -almost happened. It has done such things to my pride! But I knew you -wouldn't want me to turn to any one else for help, would you?" - -"Oh, no," said he, with sudden queer misgivings, "of course not! Not for -a minute!" - -"I knew you'd feel that way, dear. Are you dreadfully busy? Could you--I -know it's a lot to ask--but could you, for me, dear, run out for five -minutes?" - -"I will!" said he, with an emphasis aimed as much at himself as at her. -"Where are you?" - -"I'm talking from the drug store across the street, right near you. I'll -wait outside." - -The misgivings deepened as Hy walked slowly out to the elevator and then -out to the street. Hy would have to be classified, in the last analysis, -as a city bachelor, a seasoned, hardened city bachelor. The one prospect -that instantly and utterly terrifies a hardened city bachelor is that -of admitting that another has a moral claim upon him. The essence of -bachelordom is the avoidance of personal responsibility. Therefore it -was a reserved, rather dignified Hy who crossed the street and joined -the supple, big-eyed, conspicuous young woman in the perfect-fitting -tailor suit. Another factor in Hy's mood, perhaps, was that the memory -of Hilda Hansen's soft young lips against his own had not yet wholly -died. - -He and Silvia walked slowly around the corner. "I don't know how to tell -you," she said in an unsteady voice. There were tears in her eyes, too. -"Hy, it's awful! It's my--my furniture!" The tears fell now. She wiped -them away. "They say positively they'll take it away tonight. Every -stick. I've cried so! I tried to explain that I'm actually rehearsing -with Cunningham. Before the end of the month I can take care of it -easily. But--" Hy stopped short, stood on the curb, looked at her. His -head was clear and cold as an adding machine. "How much would it take?" -said he. - -"Oh, Hy." She was crying again. "Don't talk in that way--so cold--" - -"I know," he broke in, "but--" - -"It's fifty dollars. You see--" - -"I haven't got it," said he. - -There was a perceptible ring in his voice. She looked at him, puzzled. - -"Silvia, dear--I'm fired." - -"Fired? Hy--when?" - -"To-day. Chucked out. I haven't got half of that--to live on, even." - -"Oh, my dear boy, you oughtn't to live in this careless way, not saving -a cent--" - -"Of course I oughtn't. But I do. That's me." - -"But what on earth--what reason--" - -"Conduct. I'm a bad one." He was almost triumphant. "Only last night -I was seen leaving a questionable restaurant--where they dance and -drink--with a young lady--" - -The tears were not falling now. Miss Silvia So-rana was looking straight -at him, thoughtful, even cool. - -"Are you telling me the truth, Hy Lowe?" - -"The gospel. I'm not even the proletariat. I'm the unemployed." - -"Well," said she--"well!" And she thought it deliberately out. "Well--I -guess you can't be blamed for that!" - -Which impressed Hy later when he thought it over, as a curious remark. -They parted shortly after this. - -But first she said, "Hy, dear, I don't like to seem to be leaving you -on account of this. It must be dreadfully hard for you." So they had a -soda, sitting in the drug store window. Hy almost smiled, thinking of -the madness of it--he and an unmistakable actress, in working hours, -here actually in the shadow of grim old Scripture House! And it was -nobody's business! It could hurt nobody! He had not known that freedom -would be like this. There was a thrill about it; so deep a thrill that -after he had put the sympathetic but plainly hurrying Silvia on an -up-town car and had paid for her as she entered, he could not bring -himself to return to the office. Even with the Worm up there, wondering -what had become of him. Even with all his personal belongings waiting to -be cleared from the desk and packed. - -He wandered over to Washington Square, his spirit reveling in the lazy -June sunshine. He stopped and listened to the untiring hurdy gurdy; -threw coins to the little Italian girls dancing on the pavement. He -thought of stopping in at the Parisian, ordering a "sirop" and reading -or trying to read, those delightfully naughty French weeklies. He knew -definitely now that he was out for a good time. - -There was a difficulty. It is easier to have a good time when there is -a girl about. Really it was rather inopportune that Hilda Hansen had -flitted back to Wisconsin. She needed a guardian; still she had been an -appealing young thing up there at the Grand Central. But she had -gone! And Silvia--well, that little affair had taken an odd and not -over-pleasant turn. The pagan person had, plainly, her sophisticated -moments. He was glad that he had seen through her. For that matter, you -couldn't ever trust her sort. - -Then creeping back into his mind like a pet dog after a beating, -hesitant, all fears and doubts of a welcome, came the thought of Betty -Deane. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV--HE WHO HESITATED - -|WHERE was Betty, anyway! And why hadn't she called up the office. It -began to seem to him that she might have done that after her little -effort of the morning. Hitherto, before that ridiculous marriage of -hers, she had always put up with Sue Wilde, over in Tenth Street. -Perhaps she was there now. Mental pictures began to form of Betty's -luxuriant blonde beauty. And it was something for a peach like that to -leave home and rich husband, come hurrying down to New York and call you -up at an ungodly hour in the morning. He remembered suddenly, warmly, -the time he had first kissed Betty--over in New Jersey, on a green -hillside, of a glowing afternoon. His laziness fell away. Briskly he -walked around into Tenth Street and rang Sue's bell. - -Betty answered--prettier than ever, a rounded but swaying young creature -who said little and that slowly. - -"Hello!" she said, "Sue's out." - -"I don't want Sue. Came to see you, Betty. I'm fired--out of a job--and -while it lasts, hilariously happy. How about a bite at the Parisian?" - -So they had humorously early tea at the old French restaurant near the -Square. Then Betty went up-town on the bus for a little shopping, and Hy -walked, at last, back to the office. They had decided to meet again for -dinner. - -Scripture House loomed before him--long, dingy, grim in the gay -sunshine. He stood motionless on the farther curb, staring at it. Had -three years of his life been spent, miserably spent, on a treadmill, -in that haunt of hypocrisy? Had he been selling his presumably immortal -soul on the instalment plan, at forty-five a week? Or was it a hideous -dream? Was he dreaming now? - -He shuddered. Then, slowly, he walked across the street, deriding to -pack up and get out for good just as swiftly as the thing could be done. -He was glad, downright glad, that it was his character that had been so -crudely assailed. That let him out. He needn't be decent--needn't wait a -month to break in a new man--nothing like that! He wondered mildly what -the Worm would say, and Peter? It might be necessary to borrow a bit -until he could get going again. Though perhaps they would take him back -on the old paper until he could find something regular. - -The sense of being haunted by a dream grew as he went up in the elevator -and walked along the hall. He saw with new eyes the old building he had -so long taken for granted--saw the worn hollows in the oak floors, the -patched cracks in the plaster; he smelt the old musty odor with new' -repugnance; noted the legends on office doors he passed with a wry -smile, the Reverend This and the Reverend That, the Society for the -Suppression of Such and Such, the commercially religious Somebody & -Company. - -He had to will his hand to open the door lettered, "My Brother's Keeper; -Hubbell Harkness Wilde, D. D." He had to will his feet to carry him -within. But once within, he stood motionless and the queerness seized -on him, widened his eyes, caught at his breath. For the place was -absolutely still. Not a typewriter sounded. Not an argumentative -voice floated out over the seven-foot partitions. It was like a dead -place--uncanny, awful. For an instant he considered running; wondered -fantastically whether his feet would turn to lead and hold him back as -feet do in dreams. - -But he stood his ground and looked cautiously about. There within the -rail, in the corner, the pretty little telephone girl sat motionless at -her switchboard, watching him with eyes that stared stupidly out of a -white face. - -He stepped to her side--tiptoeing in spite of himself--tried to smile, -cleared his throat, started at the sound; then whispered, "For Heaven's -sake, what's the matter?" and patted the girl's cheek. - -Ordinarily she would have dodged away and looked anxiously about in fear -of being seen. Now she did nothing of the sort. After a moment she said, -also whispering and quite incoherently--"Is Miss Hardwick going to have -your room?" - -At the sound of her voice and out of sheer nervousness, he gulped. She -was alive, at least. He pinched her cheek; and shook his head, rather -meaninglessly. Then he braced himself and went on in, wholly unaware -that he was still tiptoeing. - -Two girl stenographers sat in a coiner, whispering. At sight of him they -hushed. He passed on. The other girls were not at their desks, though he -thought that most of their hats and coats hung in the farther corner -as usual. The office boy was not to be seen. The copy editor and -proof-reader was not in her cubby-hole at the end of the corridor. Miss -Hardwick's door was shut; but as he passed he thought he heard a rustle -within, and he was certain that he saw the tip of a hat feather over the -partition. - -He came to his own door. It was ajar. He felt sure he had closed it -when he left. It was his regular practise to close it. He stopped short, -considering this as if it was a matter of genuine importance. Then it -occurred to him that the boy might have been in there with proofs. - -Doctor Wilde's door at the end of the corridor stood open. The -seven-foot square mahogany desk, heaped with papers and books, looked -natural enough, but the chair behind it was empty. - -He tiptoed forward, threw his door open. Then he literally gasped. For -there, between the desk and the window, stood the Walrus. He held the -nicked editorial shears in his hand--he must have picked them up from -the floor--and was in the act of looking from them to the cut ends of -the wires by the buzzer. - -Hy's overcharged nervous system leaped for the nearest outlet. "I cut -the damn things myself," he said, "this morning." - -The Walrus turned toward him an ashen face. - -"Ah, yes," he said. "I didn't know they were objectionable to you." - -"I've hated them for three years," said Hy. - -"You should have spoken. It is better to speak of things." - -"Speak nothing!" Hy sputtered. "I stood a fine chance." - -"You know," observed Doctor Wilde, as if he had not heard--his voice was -husky and curiously weak--"we were interrupted this morning. You were -wrong in imagining that a resignation was necessary. You jumped at that -conclusion. I should say that you were unnecessarily touchy." - -"But my character--" - -"I repeat, it seems to me that you were unnecessarily touchy. A man must -not be too sensitive. He should be strong to take as well as give blows. -Your actions, it seemed to me, perhaps wrongly, were a blow to me, to -the prestige of this establishment. You must understand, Mr. Lowe, that -in this life that we all must live"--absently he looked about to see -if Miss Hardwick's pencil was poised to render imperishable the thought -that he was about to put into words, caught himself, brushed a limp -hand (with the shears in them) across his eyes, then went on with an -effort--"I will say further that when we spoke this morning I had not -seen the dummy for the issue of July tenth. Now I don't mind telling you -that I regard that as a good dummy. You have there caught my ideas of -sound make-up better than ever before. And I have--" - -"But my character--" - -"--and I have just written instructions to Mr. Hennessy to make a change -in your salary beginning with next Saturday's envelope. You are -now doing the work of a full managing editor. Your income should -be sufficient to enable you to support the position with reasonable -dignity. Hereafter you will draw sixty dollars a week." - -He moved toward the door. He seemed suddenly a really old man, grayer of -hair and skin, more bent, less certain of his footing. - -"Here!" cried Hy, sputtering in uncontrollable excitement, "those are my -shears." - -"Ah, so they are. I did not notice." And the Walrus came back, laid them -carefully on the desk: then walked out, entered his own room, closed the -dour. - -Hy shut his door, stood for a moment by the desk, sank, an inert figure, -into his chair. His eyes focused on the old alpaca coat, stuffed into -the waste basket. He took it out; spread it on the desk and stared at -the ink stains. "I can have it cleaned," he thought. Suddenly he pressed -two shaking hands to his throbbing head. - -"My God!" he muttered, aloud. "What did I say to him. What didn't I say -to him? I'm a loon! I'm a nut! This is the asylum!" - -He stiffened up; sat there for a moment, wildeyed. He reached down and -pinched his thigh, hard. He sprang up and paced the room. He wheeled -suddenly, craftily, on the silent buzzer, there on the partition. So far -all right--the wires were cut! - -He saw the shears lying on the desk; pounced on them and feverishly -examined the blades. One was nicked. - -So far, so good. But the supreme test remained. He plunged out into the -silent corridor, hesitated, stood wrestling with the devils within him, -conquered them and white as all the ghosts tapped at Doctor Wilde's -door, opened it a crack, stuck in his head, and said: - -"How much did you say it was to be, Doctor?" - -The Walrus compressed his lips, and then drew a deep breath that was not -unlike a sigh. "The figure I mentioned," he replied, "was sixty dollars -a week. If that is satisfactory to you." - -Hy considered this. "On the whole," he said finally, "considering -everything, I will agree to that." - -At ten minutes past midnight Hy let himself into the rooms. One gas jet -was burning dimly in the studio. As he stood on the threshold he could -just make out the long figure of the Worm half reclining in the Morris -chair by a wide-open window, attired in the striped pajamas of the -morning. From one elevated foot dangled a slipper of Chinese straw. He -was smoking his old brier. - -"Hello!" said Hy cheerfully. - -Silence. Then, "Hello!" replied the Worm. - -Hy tossed his hat on the couch-bed of the absent Peter, then came and -stood by the open window, thrust hands deep into trousers packets, -sniffed the mild evening air, gazed benevolently on the trees, lights -and little moving figures of the Square. Then he lit a cigarette. - -"Great night, my son!" said he. - -The Worm lowered his pipe, looked up with sudden sharp interest, studied -the gay young person standing so buoyantly there before him; then -replaced the pipe and smoked on in silence. - -"Oh, come!" cried Hy, after a bit. "Buck up! Be a live young newspaper -man!" - -"I'm not a newspaper man,'" replied the Worm. - -"You're not a---you were this afternoon." - -"True." - -"Say, my son, what were you around for today?" - -The pipe came down again. "You mean to say you don't know?" - -"Not a thing. Except that the place went absolutely on the fritz. I -thought I had 'em." - -"I don't wonder," muttered Henry Bates. - -"And the Walrus raised me fifteen bucks per. Just like that!" - -"He raised you?" - -"Yes, my child." Hy came around, sat on the desk, dangled his legs. - -"Then," observed the Worm, "he certainly thinks you know." - -"Elucidate! Elucidate!" - -The Worm knocked the ashes from his pipe; turned the warm bowl around -and around in his hand. "Our paper--I should say _The Courier_--. has a -story on Doctor Wilde--a charge that he has misappropriated missionary -funds. They sent me up to-day to ask if he would consent to an -accounting." - -Hy whistled. - -"The amount is put roughly at a million dollars. I didn't care much -about the assignment." - -"I should think not." - -"I'm fond of Sue. But it was my job. When I told him what I was there -for, he ran me out of his office, locked the door and shouted through -the transom that he had a bottle of poison in his desk and would take -it if I wouldn't agree to suppress the story. As if he'd planned exactly -that scene for years." - -"Aha," cried Hy--"melodrama." - -"Precisely. Melodrama. It was unpleasant." - -"You accepted the gentleman's proposition, I take it." - -"I dislike murders." - -Hy, considering this, stiffened up. "Say," he cried, "what's the paper -going to do about it?" - -"I saw the assistant city editor this evening at the Parisian bar. -He tells me they have decided to drop the story. But they dropped me -first." He looked shrewdly at Hy. "So don't worry. You can count on your -raise." - -Hy's cigarette had gone out. He looked at it, tossed it out the window, -lit a fresh one. - -"Of course," said he, "a fellow likes to know where he gets off." - -"Or at least that he is off," said the Worm, and went to bed. - -Hy let him go. A dreamy expression came into his eyes. As he threw -off coat and waistcoat and started unbuttoning his collar, he hummed -softly:= - -```"I want si-_imp_-athee, - -```Si-_imp_-athee, just _symp_-ah-thee."= - -He embraced an imaginary young woman--a blonde who was slow of speech -and luxurious in movements--and danced slowly, rather gracefully across -the room. - -All was right with the world! - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI--ENTER MARIA TONIFETTI - -|THOUGH there is no known specific for heartache, there are palliatives. -One such Peter Ericson Mann found in the head barber's chair at the -strictly sanitary shop of Manus. The necessity, during all the spring -months, of avoiding this shop had irked Peter; for he was given to worry -in the matter of bacteria. And he could not himself shave his thin and -tender skin without irritating it to the point of eruption. - -The shop of Marius was in the basement of that most interesting of New -York restaurants, the Parisian. The place is wholly French, from the -large trees out front and in their shade the sleepy victorias always -waiting at the curb to the Looeys and Sharlses and Gastongs that -serve you within. It is there a distinction to be known of the maître -d'hôtel, an achievement to nod to the proprietor. - -Greenwich Village, when in funds, dines, lunches, breakfasts at the -Parisian. Upper West Side, when seeking the quaintly foreign dissociated -from squalor, dines there. Upper West Side always goes up the wide front -steps and through the busy little office into the airy eating rooms with -full length hinged windows. There is music here; a switchboard youth -who giftedly blends slang with argot; even, it has been reported, an -interior fountain. Greenwich Village now and again ascends those wide -front steps; but more often frequents the basement where is neither -fountain nor music, merely chairs, tables and ineffable food; these -latter in three or four small rooms which you may enter from the Avenue, -directly under the steps, or from the side street through the bar. The -corner room, nearest the bar, is a haunt of such newspaper men as -live in the neighborhood. Also in the basement is a rather obscure and -crooked passage extending from the bar past the small rooms and the -barber shop of Marius to the equally obscure and crooked stairway that -leads by way of telephone booths and a passage to the little office -hallway and the upper restaurant. The whole, apparently, was arranged -with the mechanics of French farce uppermost in the mind of the -architect. - -Peter's large horn-rimmed eye-glasses hung by their heavy black ribbon -from the frame of the mirror; his long person lay, relaxed, in the -chair. His right foot rested on a bent-wire stand; and kneeling -respectfully before it, polishing the shoe, was the boy called -Theophile. His left hand lay on the soft palm of Miss Maria Tonifetti -who was working soothingly, head bowed, on the thumb nail. Miss -Tonifetti was pretty. She happens to be the reason why Peter had kept -away from the shop of Marius all spring. These Italian girls, from below -Washington Square, were known to be of an impetuous temper. Hy Lowe had -on several occasions advised Peter to let them alone. Hy believed -that they, carried knives. Now, however, finding Maria so subdued, if -gloomily emotional, of eye, experiencing again the old soft thrill as -her deft smooth fingers touched and pressed his own, he was seriously -considering asking her out to dinner. He had first thought of this while -Marius (himself) was plying the razor. (What a hand had Marius!) The -notion grew during the drowsily comfortable shampoo that came next. With -the face massage, and the steaming towels that followed it--one of these -now covered his face, with a minute breathing hole above the nose--came -a gentle glow of tenderness toward all the world and particularly toward -Miss Tonifetti. After all, he had never intended neglecting her. Life is -so complex! - -I had hoped to slip through this narrative with no more than an -occasional and casual allusion to Maria. But this, it appears, is not -possible. She matters. And even at the risk of a descent into unromantic -actuality, into what you might call "realism," she enters at this point. - -Peter himself, like most of us, disliked actuality. His plays were all -of duty and self-sacrifice and brooding tenderness and that curious -structure that is known throughout the theatrical district as Honor. -Honor with a very large H--accompanied, usually, with a declamatory -gesture and a protruding chest. Sue, at her first meeting with Peter, -when she talked out so impulsively, really said the last word about his -plays. Peter's thoughts of himself (and these never flagged) often took -the form of recollecting occasions when he had been kind to newsboys or -when he had lent a helping hand to needy young women without exacting -a quid pro quo. The occasions when he had not been kind took the -memory-shape of proper indignation aroused by bitter injustice -to himself. He had suffered greatly from injustice as from -misunderstanding. Few, indeed, understood him; which fact added -incalculably to the difficulties of life. - -Now just a word of recent history and we shall get on with our story. -When Sue broke her engagement to Peter he took his broken heart away to -Atlantic City, where he had before now found diversion and the impulse -to work. He had suffered deeply, these nearly two weeks. His food had -not set well. The thought of solitary outdoor exercise, even ocean -swimming, had been repellent. And until the last two or three nights, -his sleeplessness had been so marked as really to worry him. Night after -night he had caught himself sitting straight up in bed saying, aloud, -harsh things to the penitent weeping Sue of his dreams. Usually after -these experiences his thoughts and nerves had proved to be in such a -tangle that his only recourse had been to switch on the lights and, with -a trembling hand and an ache at the back of his head, plunge into his -work. The work, therefore (it was a new play), had gone rather well--so -well that when the expensiveness of the life began to appear really -alarming he was ready to come back to the old haunts and make the effort -to hold up his head. He had got into New York at four-ten and come down -to the shop of Marius by taxi. His suit-case and grip were over in the -corner by the coat rack. - -It was now nearly five-thirty. The face massage was over with; his thick -dark hair had been brushed into place by the one barber in New York -who did not ask "Wet or dry?" And he was comfortably seated, across the -shop, at Miss Tonifetti's little wire-legged table, for the finishing -strokes of the buffer and the final soap-and-water rinsing in the glass -bowl. He looked at the bent head and slightly drooping shoulders of -the girl. The head was nicely poised. The hair was abundant and -exceptionally fine. It massed well. As at certain other moments in the -dim past his nature reacted pleasantly to some esthetically pleasing -quality in hair, head, shoulders and curve of dark cheek. Just then she -glanced up, flushed perceptibly, then dropped her eyes and went on -with her work--which consisted at the moment in giving a final polish -by-brushing the nails lightly with the palm of her hand. - -The glow in Peter's heart leaped up into something near real warmth. -He leaned forward, glanced swiftly about, then said, low: "It has been -hard, Maria--not seeing you." - -The dark head bent lower. - -"It did seem best. You know." - -The head nodded a very little--doubtfully. "There's no sense in being -too hard on ourselves, Maria. Suppose--oh, come on and have dinner with -me." - -Again the head was inclined in assent. And he heard her whisper, -"Where?" - -Peter thought swiftly. This was not a matter for his acquaintances -of the Square and Greenwich Village. Then, too, a gentleman always -"protected the girl." Suddenly he remembered: - -"Meet me at the old place--corner of Tenth. We can take the bus up-town. -You can't get off early?" She shook her head. - -"All right. Say twenty after to half-past seven. I'll leave my bags here -for the present." - -This, after all, was living! It was best. You had to keep on. And it -would be nice to give Maria a good time. She had been exacting in the -past, given to unexpected outbursts, a girl of secretive ways, but of -violent impulses, that she seemed always struggling to suppress. He had -noted before now a passionate sort of gloom in the girl. To-day, -though, she was charming, gentle enough for anybody. Yes, for old times' -sake--in memory of certain intense little episodes they two had shared, -he would give her a nice evening.... With such thoughts he complacently -lighted a cigarette, smiled covertly at the girl, who was following -him furtively, with her big dark eyes and went back through the crooked -corridor to the bar. - -Here we find Hy Lowe engaged in buying a drink for Sumner Smith, one -of the best-known reporters on that most audaciously unscrupulously -brilliant of newspapers, _The Evening Earth_. Sumner Smith was fat, -sleepy-eyed, close-mouthed. He was a man for whom Peter felt profound if -cautious respect. - -But his thoughts were not now concerned with the locally famous -reporter, were not concerned, for the moment, even with himself. He was -impressed by the spectacle of Hy Lowe standing treat, casually tossing -out a five-dollar bank note; so much so that he promptly and with a -grin accepted Hy's nod as an invitation and settled, after a moment's -thoughtful consideration, on an old-fashioned whisky cocktail. - -It was not that Hy was stingy; simply that the task of dressing well, -taking in all the new shows and entertaining an apparently inexhaustible -army of extraordinarily pretty girls with taxis and even occasional wine -was at times too much for the forty-five a week that Hy earned. - -Now, as it happened, while Peter thought about Hy, Hy was thinking about -Peter. Not six times in the more than three years of his life with Peter -and the Worm had Hy seen so jovial an expression on the long face of the -well-known playwright. - -The man was self-conscious to the point of morbidity. This at all times, -dating far, far back of his painful relationship with Sue Wilde, back -of his tempestuous affair with Grace Derring, back of the curious little -mix-up with that Tonifetti girl. Lately he had been growing worse. -Why, it was not yet a fortnight since he had fought Zanin, over at the -Muscovy. Then Sue had broken their engagement, and Peter had left town a -crushed and desperate man. Hy had gone to the trouble of worrying about -him; an exertion which he was now inclined to resent a bit. He had even -mentioned his fears to the Worm; which sage young man had smiled and -observed dryly and enigmatically, "Peter will never really love anybody -else."... And now, of all times, Peter was grinning! - -The journalist left them to read _Le Sourire_ and nibble toast in the -corner room. Peter cheerfully regarded Hy's new homespun suit, his real -Panama hat with a colored stripe in the white fluffy band, his flaming -new tie and the silk shirt of exclusive pattern beneath it. Hy caught -this scrutiny, and returned the grin. - -"I'm in soft, Pete," he murmured. "Got a raise." - -"Not out of old Wilde?" - -Hy nodded. "Considerable story, my son. First the old boy fired me. That -was at nine-thirty A. m. I went out and made a day of it. Then, of all -things, the Worm comes into the office--" - -"The Worm! Henry Bates?" - -"Yep. He was on _The Courier_, you know." - -"Was?" - -"Was--and isn't. They sent him up with a stiff story about the -missionary funds we've collected through the paper. And what does the -old boy do but lock him out and holler through the transom that he'll -eat poison, just like that, unless the Worm goes back and kills the -story." - -"And what does the Worm?" - -"As per instructions." - -"Kills the story?" - -"And his job with it. He's writing a novel now--like everybody else. -Have another," Hy added cheerfully, "on the old Walrus' partner in -crime." Peter had another. - -"The rest of it is"--this from Hy--"I come in at four-thirty that -afternoon to pack up my things, and the Reverend Doctor Wilde hands me a -raise. I get sixty now. I am on that famous road to wealth." - -"But what on earth--" - -Hy chuckled. "Worm says the old boy thought I knew." - -"Ah!" breathed Peter. "Ah!" - -"Can't say I wonder at Sue's leaving home, hitting out for the -self-expression thing." Hy grew more expansive as the liquor spread its -glowing warmth within his person. Otherwise he would hardly have spoken -of Sue, even on the strength of that genial grin of Peter's. - -Peter leaned an elbow on the mahogany bar and slowly sipped. "I wonder -if Sue suspects this." It was not easy for him to speak her name. But he -did speak it, with an apparent casualness worthy of Waters Coryell. - -"Probably not. I've worked at his elbow for years and never dreamed." -He sighed. "It's hard to see where a girl of any spirit gets off these -days. From my experience with 'em, I'm convinced that home is the safest -place for 'em, and yet it's only the dead ones that'll give up and stay -there." - -Peter did not reply. His brows were knit, but not, apparently, in -concentration, for his eyes wandered. He said something about getting -his bags over to the rooms; started irresolutely down the passage toward -the barber shop; stopped; pressed his fingers to his mouth; came back, -passing Hy as if he didn't see him and went on out to the side street. -Here he stopped again. - -The side street was narrow. A cross-town car shut off most of his view -of the Avenue, a few yards away. Then it passed, and he saw a young -couple strolling across toward the restaurant. The man--large, heavy of -hand and foot, a peasant-like, face curiously lighted by burning -eyes, better dressed than usual--was Jacob Zanin. The girl--slim, -astonishingly fresh and pretty, not wearing the old tarn o' shanter and -haphazard costume he associated with her, but a simple light suit--was -Sue Wilde; the girl who by her hardness and selfishness had hurt Peter -irreparably. There they were, chatting casually, quite at ease--Zanin, -who didn't believe in marriage, who had pursued Sue with amazing -patience for nearly two years, who had wrecked Peter's pocket; Sue, who -had broken his heart. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII--PETER IS DRIVEN TO ACT - -|THE spectacle stopped Peter's brain. Among all the wild pictures that -had rushed helter skelter through his overwrought mind of late there had -been nothing like this. Why, it was only a matter of days since he and -Zanin had pummeled each other to an accompaniment of broken chairs, -overturned tables, wrecked china, torn clothing, actual blood. He had -pictured Sue, a confused disillusioned girl, rushing back to her home; -Zanin a marked man, even in the Village, cowering away from his fellows. -But this! - -They passed the corner. With a great gulp of sheer emotion Peter -followed, almost running. They turned into the Parisian---but not into -the familiar basement. Instead they mounted the wide front steps, as -matter-of-fact as any two Upper West Siders out of a limousine. Peter -pressed his hands to his eyes. He looked again. They had vanished within -the building. - -Peter walked back and forth. He told himself that he must think. But -the fact clear even to his overwhelmed consciousness was that he was not -thinking and that there was no immediate prospect of his being able to -think. He went a whole block up the side street, stemming the thick tide -of Jewish working girls from University Place and the lower Broadway -district and men in overalls--muttering aloud, catching himself, -compressing his lips, then muttering again. "She played with me!" So ran -the muttering. "She is utterly lacking in responsibility, in any -sense of obligation. She lacks spirituality. That is it, she lacks -spirituality. She has no fineness. She is hard--hard! She is -drifting like a leaf on these crazy Village currents of irrepressible -self-indulgence. I tried to save her--God knows I tried! I did my best! -I can't be blamed if she goes to pieces now! I can do no more--I must -let her go!" But even while he spoke he gulped again; his face, nearly -gray now, twisting painfully. He suddenly turned and rushed back to the -Parisian. - -He paused at the side doorway and peered in. Hy was not in evidence. -A later glance, from within the barroom, disclosed that slightly -illuminated young man in the corner room of the restaurant hanging over -the table at which the taciturn Sumner Smith was still trying to read -_Le Sourire_. - -Peter went on into the crooked passage, passed the open doors of two -eating rooms where only the first early diners had as yet drifted in, -found himself at the door of the barber shop, stopped short, then seeing -the familiar figure of Maria Tonifetti approaching her table in the -corner, dodged back and into the washroom. Here the boy named Anatole -said, "Good evening, Meester Mann," and filled a basin for him. Peter -dipped his hands into the warm water and washed them. He was surprised -to find his forehead dripping with sweat. He dried his hands, removed -his glasses and scrubbed his face. He turned on the cold water, wet a -towel and pressed it to his temples and the back of his head, taking -care not to wet his collar. His hands were trembling. And that impulse -to talk aloud was rising uncontrollably. He went back to the corridor; -stood motionless, breathing deeply; recalled with the force of an -inspiration that Napoleon had feared nothing, not even the ladies -with whose lives his own had become so painfully entangled and walked -deliberately, staring straight before him, past that barber shop door. - -At the foot of the crooked stairway he paused again. And again his face -was twisting. "I've got to make the one more effort," he said. "It isn't -for myself, God knows! I gave her my love--I pledged her my life--I have -suffered for her--I would have saved her if she had played fair! I've -got to make this last effort!" - -He mounted the stairs, crowded past the telephone booths, staging at -them as he went. They conveyed a suggestion to his mind. He stepped -cautiously to the restaurant door, nodded to the maître d'hôtel and -glanced in. The nearer room was empty; but beyond the second doorway, -Zanin's shoulder and profile were visible. Sue he could not see, but -she must be sitting there. Yes, Zanin was leaning forward, was speaking, -even smiling, in that offhand way of his! - -Peter, flushing now, turned away; confronted the boy called Raoul; -pressed a silver quarter into his palm. "Page, Miss Wilde," he breathed -huskily. "Tell her she is wanted on the phone." - -The boy named Raoul obeyed. At the Parisian it is not regarded as -surprising that a gentleman should wish to speak to a lady. - -Peter rushed around the turn and Waited at the farther end of the row of -booths. - -Finally he heard her step. - -When she saw him she stopped. "Oh," she said, "Peter!" And she frowned a -very little. - -"It was a deception," he broke out, "but I had to see you, Sue! I know -you are with Zanin. I saw you come in. I don't see how you can do it, -but we'll let that pass. I--" - -"What is it, Peter? What do you want with me?" - -"Oh, Sue! Are you as hard as that? What do I want of you! Good God! When -I see you, after all I have suffered for your sake, plunging back into -this life--taking up with that crock Zanin as if nothing had happened, -as if--Why, he--" - -Sue grew a little white about the mouth and temples. She glanced back at -the empty passage. - -"Peter," she said, curiously quiet, "if you think it fair to follow me -into a public place, if you really mean to make another hideous scene, -you will have to come into the dining-room to do it." - -He reached out, caught her arm. She wrenched away and left him there. -For a long moment he stared out the window at the rush of early evening -traffic on the Avenue, his hands clenched at his sides. Then he hurried -past the office and down to the street. - -He stood on the curb and addressed a rattling autobus. "It is -unbearable--unbelievable. The girl has lost all sense of the fitness -of things. She is beside herself. I must act--act! I must act at -once--to-night!" - -People were passing. He turned, suddenly aware of the bustlingly -unsympathetic, world about him. Had any one heard his voice? Apparently -none had. All were hurrying on, up-town, down-town. Standing there on -the curb he could see in at the basement window. Sumner Smith was alone -at last and deep in _Le Sourire_. Hy had drifted away--back to the bar, -doubtless. - -Peter, you recall, was a genius. As a genius he fed on his emotional -reactions; they were his life. Therefore do not judge him too harshly -for the wild thought that at this point rushed over his consciousness -with a force that left him breathless. He was frightened and by himself. -But there was a barbarous exaltation in his fear. "It'll bring her to -her senses," he thought. "I've got to do it. Then she'll listen to me. -She'll _have_ to listen to me then." - -Peter appeared in the corner room down-stairs, almost as curiously quiet -as Sue had been in their brief talk. He, too, was rather pale. He came -over to Sumner Smith's table, dropped down opposite the fat journalist, -beckoned a waiter, ordered a light dinner, and, that done, proffered a -cigarette. - -"I've got a tip for you, Smith," he said, "a real one. If _The Evening -Earth_ hasn't lost its vigor you can put it over big." - -The fat man merely lighted his cigarette and looked inscrutably over it -at Peter's drawn face. - -"I can't give you the details. You'll have to take my word for them. Did -you ever hear a question raised regarding the Reverend Doctor Wilde?" -Sumner Smith glanced out toward the bar and Hy. The corners of his mouth -twitched. "His boss?" - -"Right. Editor of _My Brother's Keeper_. Author of the famous missionary -sermons." - -"There was a little talk last year. You mean the big mission funds he -has raised?" - -Peter nodded. His eyes were overbright now. "Nobody has the evidence, -Mann. It isn't news as it stands." - -"Suppose you could _make_ it news--big news." - -"Oh, of course--" the journalist gestured with his cigarette. - -"Well, you can. To-night. Go straight to his house--over in Stuyvesant -Square, not five minutes in a taxi, not ten on the cars--and ask him -point-blank to consent to an accounting. Just ask him." Sumner Smith -mused. "It might be worth trying," he said. - -"Take my word for it." - -The journalist paid his check, rose, nodded to an acquaintance across -the room, said: "I'll think it over, Mann. Much obliged--" and sauntered -out. - -This was unsatisfactory. Peter, crestfallen, forgot that Sumner Smith -was hardened to sensations. And peering gloomily after the great -reporter, he only half saw the man pause at the small desk near the bar, -then speak casually to the now somewhat wobbly Hy Lowe: he only half -heard a taxi pull up outside, a door slamming, the sudden grinding of -gears as the taxi darted away. There were so many noises outside: you -hardly noticed one more. - -The waiter brought his dinner. He bolted it with unsteady hands. "I must -think this all out," he told himself. "If Sumner Smith won't do it, -one of the other _Earth_ men will. Or some one on _The Morning -Continental._" - -He lit a cigar, sat bark and gazed out at the dim street where dimmer -figures and vehicles moved forever by. It occurred to him that thus -would a man sit and smoke and meditate who was moved by an overmastering -love to enact a tremendous deed. But it was difficult to sustain the -pose with his temples throbbing madly and a lump in his throat. His -heart, too, was skipping beats, he thought. Surreptitiously he felt his -left wrist. - -He beckoned the waiter; ordered paper and ink. The lump in his throat -was suddenly almost a pain. He wrote-- - -"It was wrong of me, of course, Sue, dear. But I really must see you. -Even though your hostile attitude makes it difficult to be myself. There -is trouble impending. It concerns you vitally. If you will only hear me; -meet me for half an hour after dinner, I know I can help you more than -you dream. - -"I am not speaking for myself but for you. In all this dreadful trouble -between us, there is little I can ask of you. Only this--give me half an -hour. I will wait down-stairs for an answer. P. E. M." - -He sent this up-stairs. Then followed it as far as the telephones, -called up his old acquaintance, Markham, of _The Morning Continental_, -and whispered darkly to him over the wire. - -As he ran down-stairs and dodged past the barber shop door, he became -conscious that the dinner he had eaten felt now like a compact, -insoluble ball in the region of his solar plexus. So he stopped at the -bar and gulped a bicarbonate of soda while buying a highball for Hy Lowe -whom he found confidentially informing the barkeeper of his raise from -forty-five a week to sixty. - -Then he resumed his seat by the window in the corner room; tried to find -amusement in the pages of _Le Sourire_; failed; watched the door with -wild eyes, starting up whenever a waiter entered the room, only to sink -back limply at each fresh disappointment. - -He wondered suddenly about Sumner Smith. What if he had followed the -trail! This thought brought something like a chill. If he, Peter, an old -newspaper man, were to be caught in the act of passing on an "exclusive" -tip to friends on competing papers--violating the sacred basis of -newspaper ethics! You couldn't tell about Smith. He rarely showed -interest, never emotion, seldom even smiled. He would receive the news -that Emperor William had declared himself King of All the Americas with -that same impassive front. - -Peter looked at his watch. It was twenty-five minutes of seven. He had -thought it at least eight. - -One thing was certain--he must get his bags out of that awful barber -shop before it closed. Accordingly he had a messenger called to take -them, over to the rooms. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII--SUE DOES NOT SEND FOR PETER - -|THE familiar person of the Worm came in through the bar, stood in the -doorway, looked about with quiet keen eyes--tall, carelessly dressed, -sandy of hair but mild and reflective of countenance. - -The Worm's eyes rested on Peter. He came across the room. - -"Sit down," said Peter, smiling, his mouth a curving crack in a ghastly -face. - -"Oh," said the Worm, "you've heard?" - -"Heard what?" - -The Worm studied him a moment; then said, not without a touch of grave -sympathy, "Tell me, Pete--do you happen to know where Sue is?" - -Peter heard this; tried to steady himself and speak in the properly -casual tone. He swallowed. Then the words rushed out--low, trembling, -all bitterness: "She's up-stairs--with Zanin!" - -The Worm turned away. Peter caught his arm. "For God's sake!" he said. -"What is it? What do you want of her? If anybody's got to tell her -anything, it'll be me!" And he pushed back his chair. - -The Worm laid a strong hand on his shoulder, held him firmly down in the -chair. - -"Pete," he said--quiet, deliberate--"if you try to go up those stairs I -myself will throw you down." - -Peter struggled a little. "But--but--good God! Who do you think you are! -You mean to say--" He stopped short, stared up at the Worm, swallowed -again. Then, "I get you!" he said. "I get you! Like the damn fool I am, -I never dreamed. So you're after her, too. You, with your books, -your fine disinterestedness, your easy friendly ways--you're out for -yourself, behind that bluff, just like the rest of us!" - -The Worm glanced about the room. Neither had raised his voice. No one -was giving them any particular attention. He relaxed his grip of Peter's -arm; dropped into the chair opposite; leaned over the table on folded -arms; fixed his rather compelling eyes on Peter's ashen face. - -"Pete," he said, very quiet, very steady, "listen to me carefully. And -don't spill any paranoia tonight. If you do--if you start anything like -that crazy fight at the Muscovy--I'll take a hand myself. Now sit quiet -and try to hear what I say." - -Peter was still swallowing. The Worm went steadily on. "A neighbor of -the Wilde's just now called up the apartment. They thought they might -get Hy Lowe to find Sue and fetch her home. But Hy-" - -"He's--" began Peter. - -"Yes, I saw him. He's outside here. He wants to sit on the curbstone and -read the evening paper. A couple of chauffeurs were reasoning with him -when I came in. I'm going to find her myself." - -"But what's happened! You--" - -"Her father has taken poison. They think he is dying. His wife went -right to pieces. Everything a mess--and two young children. They hadn't -even got the doctor in when this man telephoned. He thinks the old boy -is gone." - -"But--but--that's absurd! It couldn't act so quickly!" - -The Worm stared; his face set perceptibly. "It has acted. He didn't take -the bichloride route. He drank carbolic." - -"But that--that's awful!" - -"Yes, it's awful. There's a newspaper man there, raising hell. They -can't get him out--or couldn't. Now keep this straight--if you go one -step up those stairs or if you try to come out and speak to Sue before I -get her away, I'll break your head." - -"She'll send for me," said Peter, sputtering. - -"Perhaps," observed Henry Bates; and swiftly left the room. - -Sue Wilde returned from her brief interview with Peter. Two or three -groups of early diners greeted her as she passed. - -Jacob Zanin watched her--her brisk little nod and quiet smile for these -acquaintances, her curiously boylike grace, the fresh tint of her olive -skin. She was a bit thin, he thought; her hard work as principal actress -in the Nature Film, coupled with the confusion he knew she had passed -through during that brief wild engagement to Peter Mann, had worn her -down. - -She had always puzzled him. She puzzled him now, as she resumed her -seat, met his gaze, said: "Jacob, give me a cigarette." - -"Sue--you're off them." - -"While the film job was on. Breaking training now, Jacob." - -"Well," he mused aloud, "I made you stop for good reason enough. But -now I'm not sure that you're not wise." And he tossed his box across the -table. - -While she lighted the cigarette, he studied her. - -None knew better than he the interesting variety of girls who came to -the Village to seek freedom--some on intense feministic principles (Sue -among these), others in search of the nearly mythical country called -Buhemia, still others in the knowledge that there they might walk -unquestioned without the cap of good repute. There were cliques and -cliques in the Village; but all were in agreement regarding a freedom -for woman equal to the experimental freedom of man. Love was admitted as -a need. The human race was frankly a welter of animals struggling upward -in the long process of evolution--struggling wonderfully. Conventional -morality was hypocrisy and therefore a vice. Frankness regarding all -things, an open mind toward any astonishing new theory in the psychology -of the human creature, the divine right of the ego to realize itself -at all costs, a fine scorn for all proverbial wisdom, something near -a horror of the home, the church, and the practical business world--a -blend of these was the Village, to be summed up, perhaps, in Waters -Coryell's languid remark: "I find it impossible to talk with any one who -was born before 1880." - -Zanin had known many women. In his own way he had loved not a few. With -these he had been hard, but not dishonest. He was a materialist, an -anarchist, a self-exploiter, ambitious and unrestrained, torn within by -the overmastering restlessness that was at once the great gift and the -curse of his blood. He wanted always something else, something more. He -was strong, fertile of mind, able. He had vision and could suffer. The -companionship of a woman--here and there, now and then--meant much to -him; but he demanded of her that she give as he would give, without -sacrifice of work or self, without obligation. Nothing but what the -Village terms "the free relation" was possible for Zanin. Within his -peculiar emotional range he had never wanted a woman as he had wanted -Sue. He had never given himself to another woman, in energy and -companionship, as he had given himself to her. - -She had eluded him. She had also eluded Peter. Zanin was capable of -despising young women who talked freedom but were afraid to live it. -There were such; right here in the Village there were such. But he did -not think Sue's case so simple as that. He spoke out now: - -"Been thinking you over, Sue." - -She deposited the ash of her cigarette on a plate, glanced gravely up at -him, then lowered her eyes again. - -"Any result, Jacob?" - -"You haven't found yourself." - -"That's right," said she, "I haven't. Have you found me?" - -He slowly shook his head. "I think you're doomed to grope for a while -longer. I believe you have a good deal to find--more than some. You -remember a while back when I urged you to take a trip with me?" - -She did not lift her eyes at this; merely gazed thoughtfully down at her -cigarette. He went on: - -"I thought I could help you. I thought you needed love. It seemed to be -the next thing for you." - -"Yes," said she rather shortly--"you told me that." - -"Well, I was wrong. Or my methods were. Something, I or some force, -stirred you and to a bad result. You turned from me toward marriage. -That plan was worse." - -She seemed about to protest; looked up now, threw out her hands. - -"At least," he pressed on, "as a plan, it didn't carry." - -Her fine brows drew together perceptibly. "That's over, Jacob." - -"All right." He settled back in his chair and looked about the lung -room. It was filling rapidly. There were long hair and flowing ties, -evening suits, smart gowns, bright lights, gay talk in two tongues, and -just now, music. "Tell me this much, Sue. What are you up to? There's no -more Crossroads, no more Nature Film--lord, but that was a job! No more -of that absurd engagement. This is why I dragged you out to-night. I'm -wondering about you. What are you doing?" - -"Jacob," she said, "I'm drifting." - -"I heard you were trying to write." - -"Trying--yes! A girl has to appear to be doing something." - -"No plans at all, eh?" - -She met this with silent assent. - -Again he looked about the sprightly room; deliberately thinking. Once -she glanced up at him; then waited. - -"Sue," he said, "I think I see you a little more clearly. If I'm wrong, -correct me. You have an unusual amount of strength--or something. I -don't know what it is. I'll fall back on the safe old word, personality. -You've got plenty of intelligence. And your stage work, your -dancing--you're gifted as all get-out. But you're like clockwork, you're -no good unless your mainspring is working. You have to be wound up." - -For the first time in this talk Sue's green-brown eyes lighted. She -leaned over the table now and spoke with a flash of feeling. - -"That's it, I believe," she said. "I've got to feel deeply--about -something. I've got to have a religion." - -"Exactly, Sue. There's a fanatical strain in you. You came into -the Village life fresh from college with a whole set of brand-new -enthusiasms. Fanatical enthusiasms. The attitude toward life that most -of us take for granted--like it, feel it, just because it is us--you -came at us like a wild young Columbus. You hadn't always believed it." - -"I always resented parental authority," said she. "Yes, I know. I'm not -sure your revolt wasn't more a personal reaction than a social theory. -They tried to tie you down. Your father--well, the less said about him -the letter. Preaching that old, old, false stuff, commercializing it, -stifling your growth." - -"Don't let's discuss him, Jacob." - -"Very good. But the home was a conspiracy against you. His present wife -isn't your mother, you told me once." - -"No, she isn't my mother." - -"Well"--he paused, thinking hard--"look here, Sue, what in thunder are -you to do! You're no good without that mainspring, that faith." - -She was silent, studying the table between them--silent, sober, not -hostile. Life was not a joyous crusade; it was a grim dilemma. And an -insistent pressure. She knew this now. The very admiration she felt for -this strong man disarmed her in resisting him. He told the bald -truth. She had fought him away once, only to involve herself with the -impossible Peter; an experience that now left her the weaker before -him. He knew this, of course. And he was a man to use every resource -in getting what he wanted. There was little to object to in him, if you -accepted him at all. And she had accepted him. As in a former crisis -between them, he made her feel a coward. - -"It brings me back to the old topic, Sue. I could help you, if you could -let me. You have fought love down. You tried to compromise on marriage. -Nothing in that. Better live your life, girl! You've got to keep on. You -can't conceivably marry Peter; you can't drift along here without a -spark alight in you, fighting life; you can't go back home, licked. God -knows you can't do that! Give me a chance Sue. Try me. Stop this crazy -resistance to your own vital needs. Damn it, be human!" - -Sue, lips compressed, eyes misty, color rising a little, looked up, -avoided Zanin's eyes; gazed as he had been doing, about the room. And -coming in through the wide door she saw the long figure of Henry Bates, -whom friends called the Worm. She watched him, compressing her lips a -little more, knitting her brows, while he stood looking from table to -table. His calm face, unassertive, reflective, whimsical in the slight -squint of the eyes, was deeply reassuring. She was fond of Henry Bates. - -He came across the room; greeted Zanin briefly; gripped Sue's hand. - -"Sit down, Henry," said she. - -He stood a moment, considering the two of them, then took the chair a -waiter slid forward. - -"I'm here on a curious mission, Sue," he said. She felt the touch of -solemnity in his voice and gave him a quick glance. "I've been sent to -find you." - -"What"--said she, all nerves--"what has happened?" - -"An accident At your home, Sue. They believe that your father is dying. -He has asked for you. It was a neighbor who called--a Mr. Deems--and -from what little he could tell me I should say that you are needed -there." - -Her hands moved nervously; she threw them out in the quick way she had -and started to speak; then giving it up let them drop and pushed back -her chair. For the moment she seemed to see neither man: her gaze went -past them; her mouth twitched. - -Zanin sat back, smoked, looked from one to the other. He was suddenly -out of it. He had never known a home, in Russia or America. There was -something between Henry Rates and Sue Wilde, a common race memory, a -strain in their spiritual fiber that he did not share; something he -could not even guess at. Whatever it was he could see it gripping her, -touching and rousing hidden depths. So much her face told him. He kept -silent. - -She turned to him now. "You'll excuse me, Jacob?" she said, very quiet. - -"You're going, then?" said he. He was true to his creed. There was no -touch of conventional sentiment in his voice. He had despised everything -her father's life meant; he despised it now. - -"Yes," she said, and nodded with sudden nervous energy--a rising -color in her cheeks, her head erect, shoulders stiffened, a flash in her -eyes--such a flash as no one had seen there for a long time--"Yes, I'm -going--home." - -Zanin sat alone, looking after them as they walked quietly out of the -restaurant. He lighted a fresh cigarette, deliberately blew out the -match, stared at it as if it had been a live thing, then flicked it over -his shoulder with a snap of his thumb. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX--AT THE CORNER OF TENTH - -|PETER sat alone in the corner room downstairs. Mechanically he turned -the pages of _Le Sourire_--turned them forward and back, tried to see -what lay before his eyes, tried indeed, to appear as should appear that -well-known playwright, "Eric" Mann. "I must think objectively," he told -himself. "That's the great thing--to think objectively." - -Time was passing--minutes, hours, years. He was trying to think out how -long it had been since the Worm went up-stairs. "Was it one minute or -ten?" - -There was a sudden new noise outside--a voice. He listened intently. It -was Hy Lowe's voice; excited, incoherent, shouting imprecations of -some sort. Somebody ought to take Hy home. On any occasion short of the -present crisis he would do it himself. Gradually the voice died down. - -He heard the side-street door open and close. - -Some One had entered the barroom. He tipped back and peered out there. -He could see part of a bulky back, a familiarly bulky back. It moved -over a little. It was the back of Sumner Smith. - -Peter got up, turned, then stood irresolute. It was not, he told -himself, that he was afraid of Sumner Smith, only that the mere sight of -the man stirred uncomfortable and wild emotions within him. - -The best way to get out, in fact the only way now, was through the -adjoining room to the door under the front steps. Certainly he couldn't -go up-stairs. There might be trouble on the Avenue if the Worm should -see him coming out. For a moment he even considered swallowing down all -this outrageous emotional upheaval within him and staying there. He had -said that Sue would send for him. During ten or twelve seconds out of -every sixty he firmly believed she would. It was so in his plays--let -the heartless girl, in her heyday, jilt a worthy lover, she was sure in -her hours of trial to flee, chastened, to his arms. - -But he looked again at the back of Sumner Smith. It was a solid back. -It suggested, like the man's inscrutable round face, quiet power. Peter -decided on flight via that front door. - -He moved slowly across the room. Then he heard a voice that chilled his -hot blood. - -"Mann," said this voice. - -He turned. One or two men glanced up from their papers, then went on -reading. - -Peter stood wavering. Sumner Smith's eye was full on him from the -barroom door; Sumner Smith's head was beckoning him with a jerk. He -went. - -"What'll you have?" he asked hurriedly, in the barroom. - -"What'll I have?" mimicked Sumner Smith in a voice of rumbling calm. -"You're good, Maun. But if anybody was to buy, it'd be me. The joke, you -see, is on me. Only nobody's buying at the moment. You send me out--an -_Evening Earth_ man!--to pull off a murder for the morning papers. Oh, -it's good! I grant you, it's good. I do your little murder; the morning -papers get the story. Just to make sure of it you send Jimmie Markham -around after me. It's all right, Mann. I've done your murder. _The -Continental's_ getting the story now--a marvel of a story. There's a -page in it for them to-morrow. As for you--I don't know what you are. -And I don't care to soil any of the words I know by putting 'em on you!" - -Even Peter now caught the rumble beneath the calm surface of that voice. -And he knew it was perhaps the longest speech of Sumner Smith's eventful -life. Peter's stomach, heart, lungs and spine seemed to drop out of his -body, leaving a cold hollow frame that could hardly be strong enough to -support his shoulders and head. But he drew himself up and replied with -some dignity in a voice that was huskier and higher than his own: - -"I can't match you in insults, Smith. I appear to have a choice between -leaving you and striking you. I shall leave you." - -"The choice is yours," said Smith. "Either you say." - -"I shall leave you," repeated Peter; and walked, very erect, out to the -side street. - -Here, near the corner of the Avenue, he found Hy Lowe, leaning against -the building, weeping, while four taxi chauffeurs and two victoria -drivers stood by. It occurred to Peter that it might, be best, after -all, to give up brooding over his own troubles and take the boy home. He -could bundle him into a taxi. And once at the old apartment building -in the Square, John the night man would help carry him up. It would be -rather decent, for that matter, to pay for the taxi just as if it was a -matter of course and never mention it to Hy. Of course, however, if Hy -were to remember the occurrence--A fist landed in Peter's face--not a -hard fist, merely a limp, folded-over hand. Peter brushed it aside. It -was the fist of Hy Lowe. Hy lurched at him now, caught his shoulders, -tried to shake him. He was saying things in a rapidly rising voice. -After a moment of ineffectual wrestling, Peter began to catch what these -things were: - -"Call yourself frien'--take bread outa man's mouth! Oh, I know. No good -tryin' lie to me--tellin' me Sumner Smith don' know what he's talkin'! -Where's my raise? You jes' tell me--where's my raise? Ol' Walrus -gone--croaked--where's my raise?" - -Peter propped him against the building and walked swiftly around the -corner. - -There he stopped; dodged behind a tree. - -Sue and the Worm were running down tire wide front steps. She leaped -into the first taxi. The Worm stood, one foot on the step, hand on door, -and called. One of Hy's audience hurried around, brushing past Peter, -receiving his instructions as he cranked the engine and leaped to his -seat. The door slammed. They were gone. - -Peter was sure that something snapped in his brain. It was probably a -lesion, he thought. He strode blindly, madly, up the Avenue, crowding -past the other pedestrians, bumping into one man and rushing on without -a word. - -Suddenly--this was a little farther up the Avenue--Peter stopped short, -caught his breath, struggled with emotions that even he would have -thought mixed. He even turned and walked back a short way. For across -the street, back in the shadow of the corner building, his eyes made out -the figure of a girl; and he knew that figure, knew the slight droop of -the shoulders and the prise of the head. - -She had seen him, of course. Yes, this was Tenth Street! With swift -presence of mind he stooped and went through the motion of picking up -something from the sidewalk. This covered his brief retreat. He advanced -now. - -She hung back in the shadow of the building. Her dark pretty face was -clouded with anger, her breast rose and fell quickly with her breathing. -She would not look at him. - -He took her arm--her softly rounded arm--in his hand. She wrenched it -away. - -"Oh, come, Maria, dear," he murmured rather weakly. "I'm sorry I kept -you waiting." - -She confronted him now. There was passion in her big eyes. Her voice was -not under control. - -"Why don't you tell the truth?" she broke out. "You think you can do -anything with me--play with me, hurt me." - -"Hush, Maria!" He caught her arm again. "Some one will hear you!" - -"Why should I care? Do you think I don't know--" - -"Child, I don't know what on earth you mean!" - -"You do know! You play with me! You sent for your bags. Why didn't you -come yourself?" - -"Why, that--" - -"When you saw me here you stopped--you went back--" - -Peter gulped. "I dropped my keys," he cried eagerly. "I was swinging -them. I had to go back and pick them up." And triumphantly, with his -free hand, he produced them from his pocket. - -Within the grip of his other hand he felt her soft arm tremble a little. -Her gaze drooped. - -"It isn't just to-night--" he heard her trying to say. - -"Come, dear, here's a bus! We'll ride up-town." - -She let him lead her to the curb. Solicitously he handed her up the -winding little stairway to a seat on the roof. - -There is no one book of Peter's life. There are a great many little -books, some of them apparently unconnected with any of the others. Maria -Tonifetti, as you may gather from this unintelligible little scene on a -street corner, had one of those detached Peter books all to herself. - -Up on the roof of the bus, Peter, reacting with great inner excitement -from his experiences of the last three hours, slipped an arm about -Maria's shoulders, bent tenderly over her, whispered softly into her -ear. Before the bus reached Forty-second Street he had the satisfaction -of feeling her nestle softly and comfortably against his arm, and he -knew that once again he had won her. Slowly within his battered spirit -the old thrill of conquest stirred and flamed up into a warm glow.... - - - - -CHAPTER XXX--FIFTY MINUTES FROM BROADWAY - -|THE Worm sat on a wooden chair, an expression of puzzled gravity on his -usually whimsical face. The room was a small kitchen. The two screened -windows gave a view of a suburban yard, bounded by an alley and beyond -the alley other yards; beyond these a row of small frame houses. There -were trees; and the scent of a honeysuckle vine. - -Sue Wilde, her slim person enveloped in a checked apron, knelt by the -old-fashioned coal range. The lower door was open, the ash-pan drawn -half out. There were ashes on the floor about her knees. - -Henry Bates absently drew out his old caked brier pipe; filled and -lighted it. Meditatively he studied the girl--her apron, the flush on -her face, the fascinating lights in her tousled hair--telling himself -that the scene was real, that the young rebel soul he had known in the -Village was this same Sue Wilde. The scent of the honeysuckle floated -thickly to his nostrils. He stared out at the row of little wooden -houses. He slowly shook his head; and his teeth closed hard on the pipe -stem. - -"Henry," she cried softly, throwing out her fine hands, "don't you -understand! I had a conscience all the time. That's what was the -matter!" - -"I think I understand well enough, Sue," said he. "It's the"--he looked -again about the kitchen and out the window--"it's the setting! I hadn't -pictured you as swinging so far to this extreme Though, as you know, -there in the Village, I have been rather conservative in my feelings -about you." - -"I know, Henry." She settled back on her heels. He saw how subdued she -was. The tears were not far from her eyes. "I've been all wrong." - -"Wrong, Sue?" - -"Absolutely. In all I said and tried to do in the Village." He was -shaking his head; but she continued: "I was cutting at the roots of -my own life. I disowned every spiritual obligation. I put my faith -in Nietzsche and the Russian crowd, in egotism. Henry"'--her eyes -unmistakably filled now'; her voice grew unsteady--"once my father came -over into the Village after me. He tried to get me to come home. I was -playing at the Crossroads then." - -"Yes," said he shortly, "I remember that time." - -"I had on my boy costume. He came straight to the theater and I had to -go out front and talk with him. We quarreled--" - -"I know," said he quickly, "I was there." - -He saw that she was in the grip of an emotional revulsion and wished he -could stop her. But he couldn't. Suddenly she seemed like a little girl. - -"Don't you see, Henry!" She threw out her hands. "Do you think it would -be any good--now--to tell me I'm not partly responsible. If I--if--" she -caught herself, stiffened up; there was a touch of her old downrightness -in the way she came out with, "Henry, he wouldn't have--killed himself!" -Her voice was a whisper. "He wouldn't!" - -The Worm smoked and smoked. He couldn't tell her that he regarded her -father as a hypocritical old crook, and that her early revolt against -the home within which the man had always wished to confine her had, as -he saw it, grown out of a sound instinct. You couldn't expect her, now, -to get all that into any sort of perspective. Her revolt dated back to -her girlish struggle to get away to school and later, to college. Sue -was forgetting now how much of this old story she had let him see in -their many talks. Why, old Wilde had tried to change the course of her -college studies to head her away from modernism into the safer channels -of pietistic tradition. The Worm couldn't forgive him for that. And -then, the man's dreadful weekly, and his curious gift of using his great -emotional power to draw immense sums of money from thousands of faithful -readers in small towns and along country lanes, he hadn't killed himself -on Sue's account. - -It was known, now, that the man had lived in an awful fear. It was known -that he had the acid right at hand in both office and home, the acid he -had finally drunk.... She was speaking. - -The Worm smoked on. - -"I wonder if you really know what happened." - -"What happened?" he repeated, all at sea. - -"You must have seen the drift of it--of what I didn't tell you at -one time or another." He saw now that she was talking of her own -experiences. He had to make a conscious struggle to bring his mind up -out of those ugly depths and listen to her. She went on. "It has been -fine, Henry, the way I could always talk to you. Our friendship--" - -She began in another way. "It's the one thing I owe to Jacob Zanin. He -told me the blunt truth--about myself. It did hurt, Henry. But even then -I knew it for the truth.... You know how he feels about marriage and -the home"--she glanced up at the bare kitchen walls--"all that." - -He nodded. - -"Well, he--Henry, he wanted to have an affair with me." She said this -rather hurriedly and low, not at all with the familiar frankness of -the Village in discussing the old forbidden topics. "He knew I was all -confused, that I had got into an impasse. He made me see that I'd been -talking and thinking a kind of freedom that I hadn't the courage to go -in for, really--in living." - -"Courage, Sue?" - -"Yes, courage--or taste---or something! Henry, you know as well as I -that the freedom we talk in the Village leads straight to--well, to -complete unmorality, to--to promiscuity, to anything." - -"Perhaps," said he, watching her and wondering with a little glow -suddenly warming his heart, at her lack of guile. He thought of a phrase -he had once formulated while hearing this girl talk---"Whom among women -the gods would destroy they first make honest." - -"When I was put to the test--and I _was_ put to the test, Henry; I found -that I was caught in my own philosophy, was drifting down with it--if -turned out that I simply didn't believe the things I'd been saying. I -even"--she faltered here, but rushed on--"I very nearly rushed into -a crazy marriage with Peter. Just to save myself. Oh, I see it now! It -would have been as dishonest a marriage as the French-heeledest little -suburbanite ever planned." - -"You're severe with yourself," he said. - -She, lips compressed, shook her head. - -"I suppose," he mused aloud, "there's a lot of us radicals who'd be -painfully put to it if we were suddenly called on to quit talking and -begin really living it out. Lord, what would we do!" And mentally he -added: "Damn few of us would make the honest effort to find ourselves -that you're making right now." Then, aloud: "What are you going to do?" - -She dropped her eyes. "I'm going to take these ashes down cellar." - -"I'll do that," said he. - -When the small task was accomplished, she said more gently: - -"Henry, please understand! I count on you. This thing is a tragedy. I'm -deep in it. I don't even want to escape it. I'll try not to sink -into those morbid thoughts--but he was my father, and he was buried -yesterday. His wife, this one, is not my mother, but--but she was his -wife. She is crushed, Henry. I have never before been close to a human -being who was shattered as she is shattered. There are the children--two -of them. And no money." - -"No money?" - -"Father's creditors have seized the paper and the house in Stuyvesant -Square. Everything is tied up. There is to be an investigation. My Aunt -Matilda is here--this is her house---but we can't ask her to support us. -Henry, here is something you can do! Betty is staying at my old rooms. -Try to see her to-day. Could you?" - -He nodded. "Surely." - -"Have her get some one to come in with her--take the place off my hands. -Every cent of the little I have is needed here. She'll be staying. That -marriage of hers didn't work. She couldn't keep away from the Village, -anyway. And please have her pack up my things and send them out. I only -brought a hand-bag. Betty will pitch in and do that for me. She's got -to. I haven't even paid this month's rent yet. Have her send everything -except my books--perhaps she could sell those. It would help a little." - -They heard a step on the uncarpeted back stairs. A door swung open. -On the bottom step, framed in the shadowed doorway, stood a short -round-shouldered woman. Lines drooped downward from her curving mouth. -Her colorless eyes shifted questioningly from the girl to the man and -back to the girl again. It was an unimaginative face, rather grim, -telling its own story of fifty-odd years of devotion to petty household -and neighborhood duties; the face of a woman all of whose girlhood -impulses had been suppressed until they were converted into perverse -resentments. - -The Worm, as he rose, hardly aware of the act, knocked the ashes from -his pipe into the coal hod. Then he saw that her eyes were on those -ashes and on his pipe. He thrust the pipe into his pocket. And glancing -from the woman to the girl, he momentarily held his breath at the -contrast and the thoughts it raised. It was youth and crabbed age. The -gulf between them was unbridgeable, of course; but he wondered--it was -a new thought--if age need be crabbed. Didn't the new sprit of freedom, -after all, have as much to contribute to life, as the puritan tradition? -Were the risks of letting yourself go any greater, after all, than -the risks of suppression? Weren't the pseudo-Freudians at least partly -right? - -"Aunt Matilda," Sue was saying (on her feet now)--"this is an old -friend, Mr. Bates." - -The woman inclined her head. - -Henry Bales, his moment of speculation past, felt his spirit sinking. He -said nothing, because he could think of nothing that could be said to -a woman who looked like that. She brought with her the close air of the -stricken chamber at the top of the stairs. By merely opening the door -and appearing there she had thrust a powerful element of hostility into -the simple little kitchen. Her uncompromising eyes drew Sue within -the tragic atmosphere of the house as effectively and definitely as it -thrust himself without it. - -Sue's next remark was even more illuminating than had been his own -curious haste to conceal his pipe. - -"Oh," murmured Sue, "have we disturbed"--she hesitated, fought with -herself, came out with it---"mother?" - -"Well, the smoke annoys her." Aunt Matilda did not add the word -"naturally," but the tone and look conveyed it. "And she can hear your -voices." - -Henry Bates had to struggle with a rising anger. There were implications -in that queerly hostile look that reflected on Sue as on himself. But -they were and remained unspoken. They could not be met. - -The only possible course was to go; and to go with the miserable feeling -that he was surrendering Sue to the enemy. - -He turned to her now, speaking with quiet dignity; little realizing that -even this dignity aroused resentment and suspicion in the unreceptive -mind behind those eyes on the stairs--that it looked brazen coming from -a young man whose sandy hair straggled down over his ears and close to -his suspiciously soft collar, whose clothes were old and wrinkled, whose -mild studious countenance exhibited nothing of the vigor and the respect -for conformity that are expected of young men in suburbs who must go in -every morning on the seven-thirty-six and come out every evening on the -five-fifty-two, and who, therefore, would naturally be classed with such -queer folk as gipsies and actors. - -"If you like, Sue," he said, "I'll get Betty to hurry so I can bring a -suit-case out to-night." - -She waited a brief moment before answering; and in that moment was swept -finally within Aunt Matilda's lines. "Oh, no," she said, speaking with -sudden rapidity, "don't do that. To-morrow will do--just send them." - -Then aware that she was dismissing him indefinitely, her eyes brimming -again (for he had been a good friend), she extended her hand. - -The Worm gripped it, bowed to the forbidding figure on the stairs and -left. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI--A PAIR OF RED BOOTS - -|THE pleasant days of quiet reading and whimsical reflection were over -for the Worm, poor devil! Life caught him up without warning--that -complex fascinating life of which he had long been a spectator--and -swept him into swift deep currents. He was to be a mere spectator no -longer. - -Washington Square glowed with June. The trees had not yet assumed the -faded, dispirited gray-green of midsummer. The bus tops were crowded -with pleasure riders, and a crowd of them pressed about the open-air -terminal station held in check by uniformed guards. On the wide curves -of asphalt hundreds of small Italians danced to the hurdy-gurdy or -played hopscotch or roller-skated. Perambulators lined the shady walks; -nurses, slim and uniformed, fat and unformed, lined the benches. -Students hurried west, south and north (for it was afternoon--Saturday -afternoon, as it happened). Beggars, pedlers, lovers in pairs, unkempt -tenement dwellers, a policeman or two, moved slowly about, but not so -slowly as they would move a few weeks later when the heat of July would -have sapped the vitality of every living thing in town. - -But the Worm, standing near the marble arch where Fifth Avenue -splendidly begins, felt not June in his heart. He walked on through the -Square to the old red-brick building where for three years he and Hy Lowe -and Pcter Ericson Mann had dwelt in bachelor comfort. The dingy studio -apartment on the seventh floor had been his home. But it was a haunt of -discord now. - -He found the usually effervescent Hy pacing the lower hall like a -leopard in a cage. Hy wore an immaculately pressed suit of creamy gray -flannel, new red tie, red silk hosiery visible above the glistening -low-cut tan shoes, a Panama hat with a fluffy striped band around it. In -his hand was a thin bamboo stick which he was swinging savagely against -his legs. His face worked with anger. - -He pounced upon the Worm. - -"Wanted to see you," he said in a voice that was low but of quavering -intensity. "Before I go. Got to run." - -At this point the elevator came creaking down. A messenger boy stepped -out, carrying Hy's suit-case and light overcoat. - -"Excuse me," breathed Hy, "one minute." He whispered to the boy, pressed -a folded dollar bill into his hand, hurried him off. "This thing has -become flatly impossible--" - -"What thing?" The Worm was moodily surveying him. - -"Pete. He's up there now. I'm through. I shan't go into those rooms -again if he--look here! I've found a place for you and me, over in the -Mews. Eight dollars less than this and more light. Tell Pete. I. can't -talk to him. My God, the man's a--" - -"He's a what?" asked the Worm. - -"Well, you know what he _did!_ As there's a God in the Heavens he killed -old Wilde." - -"Killed your aunt!" observed the Worm, and soberly considered his -friend. Hy's elaborate get-up suggested the ladies, a particular lady. -The Worm looked him over again from the fluff-bound Panama to the red -silk socks. A very particular lady! And he was speaking with wandering -eyes and an unreal sort of emphasis; as if his anger, though doubtless -genuine enough, were confused with some other emotion regarding which he -was not explicit. - -"Where are you going now--over to the Mews?" - -Hy started at the abrupt question, took the Worm's elbow, became -suddenly confidential. - -"No," he said, "not exactly. You see--everything's gone to smash. -The creditors of the paper won't keep me on. They'll put in a country -preacher with a string tie, and he'll bring his own staff. That's what -Pete's done to me! That's what he's done. I wouldn't go off this way, -right now, if it wasn't for the awful depression I feel. I didn't -sleep a wink last night. Honest, not a wink! A man's got to have _some_ -sympathy in his life. Damn it, in a crisis like this--" - -"Perhaps you can tell me with even greater lucidity when you are coming -back," said the Worm dryly. - -Hy gulped, stared blankly at his friend, uttered explosively the one -word, "Monday!" Then he glanced at his watch and hurried out of the -building. - -The Worm slowly shook his head and took the elevator. - -The long dim studio was quite as usual, with its soft-toned walls, -dilapidated but comfortable furniture, Hy's piano, the decrepit flat-top -desk, the two front windows from which you could see all of the Square -and the mile of roofs beyond it, and still beyond, the heights of -New Jersey. The coffee percolator stood on the bookcase--on the empty -bookcase where once had been the Worm's library. In this room he had -studied and written the hundreds of futile book reviews that nobody ever -heard of, that had got him precisely nowhere. In this room he had lived -in a state of soul near serenity until he met Sue Wilde. Now it brought -heartache. Merely to push open the door and step within was to stir -poignantly haunting memories of a day that was sharply gone. It was like -opening old letters. The scent of a thoughtlessly happy past was faintly -there. - -Something else was there--a human object, sprawled abjectly in the -Morris chair, garbed in slippers and bathrobe, hair disheveled, but -black-rimmed eye-glasses still on his nose, the conspicuous black -ribbon still hanging from them down the long face. It was that -well-known playwright, Peter Ericson Mann, author of _The Buzzard, Odd -Change and Anchored_; and, more recently, of the scenario for Jacob -Zanin's Nature him. Author, too, of the new satirical comedy. _The -Triffler_, written at Sue Wilde and booked for production in September -at the Astoria Theater. - -The Worm had not told Hy that he had just seen Sue. Now, standing -motionless, the thousand memory-threads that bound the old rooms to -his heart clinging there like leafless ivy, he looked down at the -white-faced man in the Morris chair and knew that he was even less -likely to mention the fact to Peter. He thought--"Why, we're not -friends! That's what it means!" - -Peter's hollow eyes were on him. - -"You, Worm!" he said huskily, and tried to smile. "I'm rather ill, I -think. It's shock. You know a shock can do it." - -"What shocked you?" asked Henry Bates rather shortly, turning to the -window. - -"Hy. He's crazy, I think. It's the only possible explanation. He said I -was a"--Peter's expressive voice dropped, more huskily still, into the -tragic mood--"a murderer. It was a frightful experience. The boy -has gone batty. It's his fear of losing his job, of course. But the -experience has had a curious effect on me. My heart is palpitating." -His right hand was feeling for the pulse in his left wrist. "And I have -some, difficulty in breathing." Now he pressed both hands to his chest. - -The Worm stared out the window. Peter would act until his dying day; -even then. One pose would follow another, prompted by the unstable -emotions of genius, guided only by an egotism so strong that it would -almost certainly weather every storm of brain or soul. In a very -indirect way Pete had murdered the old boy. No getting around that. An -odd sort of murder--sending Sumner Smith to ask that question. Peter -himself, away down under his egotism, knew it. Hence the play for -sympathy. - -Peter was still talking. "It really came out of a clear sky. Until very -lately I should have said that Hy and I were friends. As you know, we -had many points of contact. Last fall, when--" - -The Worm turned. "Passing lightly over the next eight months," he -remarked, "what do you propose to do now?" - -Peter shrank back a little. The Worm's manner was hardly ingratiating. -"Why--" he said, "why, I suppose I'll stay on here. You and I have -always got on, Henry. We've been comfortable here. And to tell the -truth, I've been getting tired of listening to the history in detail of -Hy's amours. He wants to look out, that fellow. He's had a few too many -of 'em. He's getting careless. Now you and I, we're both sober, quiet. -We were the backbone of the Seventh-Story Men. We can go on--" - -The Worm, though given to dry and sometimes cryptic ways, was never -rude. That is he never had been. But at this point he walked out of -the apartment and closed the door behind him. He had come in with the -intention of using the telephone. Instead now he walked swiftly through -the Square and on across Sixth Avenue, under the elevated road into -Greenwich Village, where the streets twist curiously, and the hopeless -poor swarm in the little triangular parks, and writers and painters and -sculptors and agitators and idea-venders swarm in the quaint tumble-down -old houses and the less quaint apartment buildings. - -He entered one of the latter, pressed one of a row of buttons under a -row of brass mouthpieces. The door clicked. He opened it; walked through -to the rear door on the right. - -This door opened slowly, disclosing a tall young woman, very light in -coloring, of a softly curving outline, seeming to bend and sway even -as she stood quietly there; charming to the eye even in the half-light, -fresh of skin, slow, non-committal in speech and of quietly yielding -ways; a young woman with large, almost beautiful, inexpressive eyes. She -wore hat and gloves and carried a light coat. - -"You just caught me," she said. - -On the floor by the wall was a hand-bag. Henry Bates eyed this. "Oh," he -murmured, distrait, "going away!" - -"Why--yes. You wanted me?" - -"Yes. It's about Sue Wilde." - -She hesitated; then led him into the half-furnished living-room. - -"Where is Sue, anyway?" - -"When I left her she wras trying to make a fire in a kitchen range. Out -in Jersey." - -"But what on earth--" - -"Trouble was she didn't understand about the damper in the pipe. I fixed -that." - -Betty glanced covertly at her wrist watch. "I don't want to appear -unsympathetic," she said, "but I don't see why she undertakes to -shoulder that family. It's--it's quixotic. It's not her sort of thing. -She's got her own life to live." - -The Worm, very calm but a little white about the mouth, confronted her. -Betty moved restlessly. - -"She wants you to pack up her things," he said. "Sent me to ask." - -Betty knit her brows. "Oh," she murmured, "isn't that too bad. I really -haven't a minute. You see--it's a matter of catching a train. I could -do it Monday. Or you might call up one of the other girls. I'm awfully -sorry. But it's something very important." Her eyes avoided his. Her -color rose a little. She turned away. "Of course," she was murmuring, "I -hate terribly to fail Sue at a time like this--" - -She moved irresolutely toward the little hall, glanced again at her -watch; and suddenly in confusion picked up her bag and hurried out. - -He could hear her light step in the outer corridor; then the street -door. All at sea, he started to follow. At the apartment door he paused. -Her key was in the lock; she had not even thought to take it. He removed -it, put it in his pocket; then wandered back into the living-room and -stood over the telephone, trying to think of some one he could call in. -But his rising resentment made clear thinking difficult. He sank into -the armchair, crossed his long legs, clasped his hands behind his head, -stared at the mantel. On it were Sue's books, in a haphazard row--a -few Russian novels (in English translations), Havelock Ellis's _Sex in -Relation to Society, Freud on Psychanalysis and Dreams_, two volumes of -Schnitzler's plays, Brieux's plays with the Shaw preface, a few others. - -His gaze roved from the books to the bare walls. They _were_ bare; all -Sue's pictures were pinned up on the burlap screen that hid a corner of -the room--half a dozen feminist cartoons from _The Masses_, a futuristic -impression of her own head by one of the Village artists, two or three -strong rough sketches by Jacob Zanin of costumes for a playlet at the -Crossroads, an English lithograph of Mrs. Pankhurst. - -Henry Bates slowly, thoughtfully, filled and lighted his pipe. His -brows were knit. The room, in its unfeminine bareness as well as in its -pictures and books, breathed of the modern unsubmissive girl. No one had -wasted a minute here on "housekeeping." Here had lived the young woman -who, more, perhaps, than any other of the recent lights of the old -Village, had typified revolt. She had believed, like the Village about -her, not in patriotism but in internationalism, not in the home but -in the individual, not in duty and submission, but in experiment and -self-expression. Already, like all the older faiths of men, this new -religion had its cant, its intolerance of opposition, its orthodoxy. His -pipe went out while he sat there flunking about it; the beginnings of -the summer twilight softened the harsh room and dimmed the outlines of -back fences and rear walls without the not overclean windows. - -Finally he got up, turned on the lights, took off his coat, found Sue's -trunk behind the burlap screen and dragged it to the middle of the room. -He began with the coverings of the couch-bed; then went into the bedroom -and folded blankets, coverlet, sheets and comforter. Sue did not own a -great variety of clothing; but what was hanging in the closet he brought -out, folded and packed away. He took down the few pictures and laid them -flat within the upper tray of the trunk. In an hour living-room, bedroom -and closet were bare. The books he piled by the door; first guessing at -the original cost of each and adding the figures in his head. - -Nothing remained but the bureau in the bedroom. He stood before this -a long moment before he could bring himself to open the top drawer. To -Peter, to Zanin, to Hy Howe, the matter would have been simple. Years -back those deeply experienced young bachelors had become familiar with -all manner of little feminine mysteries; but to Henry Bates these were -mysteries still. The color came hotly to his mild countenance; his -pulses beat faster and faster. He recalled with painful vividness, the -last occasion on which Reason, normally his God, had deserted him. That -was the day, not so long ago by the calendar, he had turned against all -that had been his life--dropped his books in the North River, donned the -costly new suit that Peter's tailor had made for him and set forth to -propose marriage to Sue Wilde. And with chagrin that grew and burned his -face to a hotter red he recalled that he had never succeeded in making -himself clear to her. To this day she did not know that his reflective, -emotionally unsophisticated heart had been torn with love of her. Why, -blindly urging marriage, he had actually talked her into that foolish -engagement with Peter!... What was the quality that enabled men to -advance themselves--in work, in love? Whatever it might be, he felt he -had it not. Peter had it. Zanin had it. Hy had it. Sue herself! Each -was a person, something of a force, a positive quality in life. But he, -Henry Bates, was a negative thing. For years he had sat quietly among -his books, content to watch others forge past him and disappear up the -narrow lanes of progress. Until now, at thirty-two, he found himself a -hesitant unfruitful man without the gift of success. - -"It is a gift," he said aloud; and then sat on the springs of the -stripped bed and stared at his ineffectual face in the mirror. "The -trouble with me," he continued, "is plain lack of character. Better Hy's -trifling conquests; better Zanin's driving instinct to get first; better -Peter's hideously ungoverned ego; than--nothing!" - -His pipe usually helped. He felt for it. It was not in the right-hand -coat pocket where he always carried it. Which fact startled him. Then -he found it in the left-hand pocket. Not once in ten years before this -bitter hour had he misplaced his pipe. "My God," he muttered, "haven't -I even got any _habits!_" He was unnerved. "Like Pete," he thought, "but -without even Pete's excuse." - -He lighted his pipe, puffed a moment, stood erect, drew a few deep -breaths, then drove himself at the task of packing the things that were -in the bureau. And a task it was! Nothing but the strong if latent will -of the man held him to it. There were soft white garments the like of -which his hands had never touched before. Reverently, if grimly, he laid -them away in the upper trays of the trunk. In the bottom drawer were -Sue's dancing costumes--Russian and Greek. Each one of these brought a -vivid picture of the girl as she had appeared at the Crossroads; each -was a stab at Henry Bates' heart. At the bottom, in the corner, were a -pair of red leather boots, very light, with metal clicks in the heels. -He took them up, stood motionless holding them. His eyes filled. He -could see her again, in that difficult crouching Russian step--her -costume sparkling with color, her olive skin tinted rose with the -spirited exercise of it, her extraordinary green eyes dancing with the -exuberant life that was in her. Then, as if by a trick shift of scene, -he saw her in a bare kitchen, wearing a checked apron, kneeling by a -stove. The tears brimmed over. He lifted the little red boots, stared -wildly at them, kissed them over and over. - -"My God!" he moaned softly, "oh, my God!" - -There was a faint smell of burning. His pipe lay at his feet, sparks -had fallen out and were eating their way into the matting. He stepped on -them; then picked up the pipe and resolutely lighted it again. The boots -he carried into the living-room; found an old newspaper and wrapped them -up; laid the parcel by his hat and coat in the hall. - -He found a strap in the kitchen closet and strapped the trunk. There was -a suit-case that he had filled; he closed this and laid it on the trunk. -Then he turned all the lights off and stood looking out the open window. -He had had no dinner--couldn't conceivably eat any. It was evening now; -somewhere between eight and nine o'clock, probably. He didn't care. -Nothing mattered, beyond getting trunk and suit-case off to Sue before -too late--so that she would surely have them in the morning. The sounds -of evening in the city floated to his ears; and he realized that he had -not before been hearing them. From an apartment across the area came the -song of a talking machine. Blowsy women leaned out of rear windows and -visited. There was a faint tinkle from a mechanical piano in the corner -saloon. He could hear a street-car going by on Tenth Street. - -Then another sound--steps in the corridor; the turning of a knob; -fumbling at the apartment door. - -He started like a guilty man. In the Village, it was nothing for a man -to be in a girl's rooms or a girl in a man's. The group was too -well emancipated for that--in theory, at least. In fact, of course, -difficulties often arose--and gossip. Greathearted phrases were -the common tender of Village talk; but not all the talkers were -great-hearted. And women suffered while they smiled. He would have -preferred not to be found there. - -A key grated. The door opened. - -With a shrinking at his heart, a sudden great selfconsciousness, he -stepped into the hall. - -It was Sue--in her old street suit. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII--CHAPTER ONE - - -|SUE stared at him, caught her breath, laughed a little. - -"Why--Henry! You startled me. Where's Betty?" - -The Worm, thinking quickly, bitterness in his heart against the selfish -lightness of the Village, bed. "Haven't seen her. Waited for her to come -in. Finally decided I'd better not wait any longer." They were in the -dim living-room now. Sue's eyes took in the strapped trunk and closed -suit-case, the bare screen and couch. - -"But who--Henry, you don't mean that you--" He nodded. His pipe was -out--he simply couldn't keep it going! Still, it gave him something to -do, lighting it again. - -Sue stood watching him, studying his face by the light of a match -reflected from his hollowed hands. "Why so dark in here?" she observed. -Then, abruptly, she came to him, laid a hand on his arm, broke out with -feeling: "You're a dear, Henry, to go to all this trouble! As it was, I -felt I was imposing on you. So I ran in to look after things myself." - -"Going back to-night?" he asked, talking around his pipe-stem. - -"Oh. yes. I must." She moved to the window and gazed out at the crowded -familiar scene. Suddenly she turned. - -"Henry--didn't you see Betty?" - -"No," he muttered. - -"Then how on earth did you get in? There are only the two keys." - -He lowered his pipe, stared at her with open mouth. As soon as his mind -cleared a little he thought--"Good God! I don't even lie well! I'm no -good--for anything!" - -He turned with a jerk; walked down the room; walked back again; striding -out savagely, turning with a jerk. - -"What is it you aren't felling me?" she asked, following him with -troubled eyes. - -He paced and paced. Finally he came to the other side of the window, -stared gloomily out. Still she watched him, waiting. - -"Sue," he said--she had never known this vehemence in him--"you're -wrong." - -"Wrong, Henry?" - -He threw out his arm in a strong gesture; his fist was clenched..The -other hand held his pipe high. "Yes, wrong! You're not a cook! You're -not a nurse maid. You're a girl with a soul--with spirit--fire! What -are you to that family? They've always wanted to hold you down--yes. But -why? For fear you'd start talk and make them uncomfortable. Oh, I knew -the feeling that has gripped you now. It's a big reaction. The tragedy -of your father's death has brought your childhood back--the old tribal -teachings--duty--self-sacrifice! The rush of it has swept your reason -aside. But it will come back. It's got to, girl! Even if you have to -take a long time working through to it. You and your father were -not friends. Denying your own life won't help him. Your emotions -are stirred. I know. But even if they are, for God's sake don't stop -thinking! Keep your head! I tell you, you've got to go on. You can't -live some one else's life--got to live your own! It's all you've gut to -live--that life--your gifts--" - -He stopped, at the point of choking. Sue was staring now. - -"Henry, this is strange--sounds more like--" - -"Well, like whom?" - -"Like Zanin. That's the way he talked to me." - -"Perhaps it's the way a man talks when he--" He could not control his -voice and stopped. - -Sue kept very still; but anally, softly, rather wearily, she said: "I'm -sorry, Henry! I've got to catch the ten-fifteen back." - -He looked at his watch; seeing nothing. "You'll be hurrying then, Sue." - -"No, there's nearly an hour." She turned on the light, moved into the -bedroom and glanced into an open bureau drawer. She drew out the one -below, then thoughtful, half smiling, came to the door. "Henry---you -packed everything?" - -"Everything, I'm sure. Though you might take a last look around." - -"But--Henry, you must have packed Betty's things, too." - -The color surged up over his collar. He was thinking of those soft -garments and the prayers that had rustled shyly upward from his torn -heart as he felt them in his hands. Wordless, he unstrapped the trunk -and lifted the lid. Sue repacked the trays. - -She stood looking at the dancing clothes, fingering them. - -"Henry," she said, "I shall never wear these again." - -"That's silly, Sue." - -"No. It isn't silly. I've got a job now. That's what we need, all of -us--a job. You used to tell me that yourself. You were right." She was -turning the costumes over with her slim hands. "Did you find a pair of -boots, Henry? Red leather with clicks in the heels? They should have -been with these Russian things." - -"No," he replied, with a sudden huskiness, "I didn't see them." - -"That's odd. They were right with the others." She turned away to give -rooms and closets a final scrutiny. She brought a rough parcel in from -the hall, feeling it with her hands. - -"This yours or mine, Henry?" she asked. "I could swear it is those -boots, but--" - -"It _is_ the boots!" he cried, like an angry man. - -She stared. He waved them and her roughly aside. - -"They belong to you, not to me. I lied to you! Take them! Pack them!" - -Brows knit, puzzled, her sensitive mouth softening painfully, she opened -the parcel and looked at the red boots--looked more closely, held them -up to the light; for she saw on them small round stains of a paler red. -Slowly she raised her eyes until they met his. - -His face was twisted with pain. Her own gaze grew misty. - -"Take them!" he cried in the same angry way. And she laid them in the -trunk. - -He was desperately fighting himself now. And with momentary success. He -said abruptly: "I'm going to buy your books myself, Sue. So just leave -them there for the present." - -"You, Henry!" She bit her lip. "You know I can't let you do that." - -"You've got to let me!" He stood right over her now. - -"But you--with your library--" - -"I have no library." His voice dropped here--and he stirred, walking -over to the window; stared out; finally turned and said, more quietly: -"Am I talking like a crazy man, Sue?" - -"Well, Henry--" She tried to smile. "I have always counted on your -steadiness. Perhaps I've leaned too much on it." - -He stood considering her and himself. Suddenly he confronted her again, -raised his long arms and gripped her shoulders. - -"And now, Sue," he said, and she could fed his hands trembling with the -passion that she heard in his voice, "I'm failing you." - -"Oh, no, Henry; I won't let you say that--" - -"No! And you won't say it yourself. But we both know it is true. I see -it--the whole thing. You've had your girlish fling here in the Village. -You were honest and natural. And you were maddeningly beautiful. We -men have crowded about you, disturbed you, pressed you. Zanin was crazy -about you. So was Peter. So were a lot of the others. So was I." - -He felt her shoulders stir under his strong hands. Her eyelids were -drooping. But he could not stop. "Everybody let it out but me. Do you -know why I didn't? Because I was a coward. I haven't made love to women. -Why? because I wasn't attractive to them. And I was timid. I stayed with -my books and let life go by. Then I found myself drawn into the circle -about you. And I lost _my_ head, too. I gave up my books---my 'library.' -Do you know where that 'library' is now, Sue? At the bottom of the North -River. Every book! I carried them over there myself, in parcels, with a -weight in every parcel, and dropped 'em off the ferry boat. I tried to -go in for reality, for what is called life. I had Peter's tailor make -me some good clothes. I got a newspaper job. Held that about two weeks. -Tried to ask you to marry me. Oh, yes, I did. But couldn't get away -with it. Sue, I never managed even to ask you. I talked marriage--almost -talked you into it--but couldn't manage to talk about myself. Until now, -just when you're worn out with work, with the pressures of men, with -all the desperate confusions of life, when your soul is sick for -peace--that's it, isn't it?". - -Very slowly her head moved. "Yes, Henry, that's it." - -"Why, then, I come along. And I'm the last straw. Stirring up the old -turbulence just when you need my friendship most. I'm doing it now--this -minute. I'm hurting you. I'm making you feel that you've lost me." - -"Henry"--he saw the effort it cost her to speak and winced--"I can't -bear to seem unsympathetic with you. But it's so hard. I can't see any -way--except this of giving up self." - -He let go her shoulders, swung away, and said: "There's just one thing -to do. I'll call a taxi." He moved to the telephone, rummaged through -the directory, still talking, the flood of feeling that had for months -been impounded within his emotionally inarticulate self rushing now past -all barriers, sweeping every last protesting reticence before it. "I do -understand, Sue. What you feel now is as deep an urge, almost, as this -old sex impulse that muddles life so for all Of us. It is what has -driven millions of women into nunneries--to get away from life. Just -as our Village freedom is a protest against, unhealthy suppression and -rigidity, so these fevers of self-abnegation are inevitable uprushings -of protest against animalism." He had found the number now. He lifted -the receiver. "It's Puritan against Cavalier--both right and both wrong! -What number--Oh, I beg your pardon! Bryant six thousand. It's the Greeks -against the Greatest of Jews--both right--both wrong! Taxi, please! -Right away. Two-thousand-twenty-six Tenth Street. All right. Good-by. -Beauty against duty--the instinct to express against the instinct to -serve--both right, both wrong!" - -He confronted her again; caught up her two hands and gripped them within -his own. "You've had your little fling at expression, Sue. You were -wonderful. You've set flowers growing in our hearts, and thank God for -flowers! But life has trapped, you. You've swung over to service. And -now you've got to go through, work your way out of it. God knows where -you'll land. But if you've counted on my steadiness, by God, you may -continue to count or it!" - -He pressed her hands to his lips; kissed her knuckles, her fingers, her -palms; then dropped them. - -Sue sank into the armchair, very white. The tears ran down her cheeks. -The Worm could not look at her; after a moment of aimless pacing, he -went out to the front steps of the building and, bareheaded, still -coatless, watched for the taxi. He helped carry out the big trunk. On -the ride to the ferry he spoke only trivialities, and Sue spoke not at -all. He did not cross the river with her; merely, there in the ferry -house, gripped her hand--smiling after a fashion, limp of spirit (for -the first great emotional uprush of his life seemed to have passed like -a wave) and said: - -"Good night, Sue. You'll let me help?" - -"Of course. Henry." - -"I'll sublet the place for you--to somebody. I'll take that on myself." - -She considered this, then soberly inclined her head. "This is the key, -Henry. Give it to Betty. And here's the key to the outer door." - -He took the two keys; dropped them into his pocket, where they jingled -against the other one. - -"It's a lonely road you're taking, Sue. Good luck.". - -"Oh, I'll see you, Henry. It won't be so exacting as that." - -"But life is going to change--for me and for you. The kaleidoscope won't -fall again into the old combination. New crowds, new ideas, are coming -in--new enthusiasms." - -"The Village forgets pretty easily," she murmured, rather wistful. - -"Yes, it forgets.... Sue, you'll marry--perhaps." - -She shook her head, lips compressed. "No--not as I feel now.... Henry, -you're too tragic! We needn't say good-by like this. Good heavens, I'm -only going over to Jersey--eighteen miles! That's all." - -"There are statute miles," said he, "and nautical miles, and--another -kind." - -"But I'll see you again." - -"Oh, yes! Of course, Sue!" - -"You can run out--some day when--" - -Her voice faltered. He _had_ been out of place in that kitchen. And she -had been put to the necessity of explaining him. It was another sort of -thing--hopelessly another sort of thing. - -He was looking down at her, something of the old whimsical calm in his -gaze, though sober, very sober. - -"Anyway," said she, weakly, groping, "you three will go on having your -good times over there in the Square. I find I like to think of you -there. What was it they called you--the--" - -"The Seventh-Story Men, Sue." - -"Yes, that was it. You've been together so long, you three. I've always -thought of your place as something stable in the Village. Everything -else was changing, all the time." - -"We've gone like the rest, Sue." - -"Oh, no, Henry! Not really?" - -"All gone! Hy goes one way, I another. And Pete stays alone. No more -Seventh-Story Men. Good-by, Sue." - -He watched her through the gate; waited to catch her last glance, then -turned back into the city. - -Slowly, very slowly, he approached the old brick building in the -Square--his home. - -In the lower hall he hesitated, wondering if Peter was in. Finally -he asked the night man. No, Mr. Mann was not in. The Worm drew a long -breath of relief and went up to the rooms. - -It did not take long to pack his possessions. Now that there were no -books to consider everything went into one old suit-case. And with this -he set forth into the night. - -The experience had a gloomy thrill of its own. He had no notion where -he was going. He hardly cared. The one great thing was to be going -away--away from those rooms, from the trifling, irritating Hy, from -the impossible Peter. He walked over to the bus station, set down his -suit-case on the sidewalk, felt in his pockets to see if he had any -money. He was always getting caught without it. He had given that taxi -man an even bill. - -Apparently he was without it again. But in one pocket he found three -keys that jingled together in his hand. - -He caught his breath; threw back his head and stared straight up through -the trees at the stars. - -"My God!" he whispered--"my God!" - -He picked up the suit-case and marched off--a tall, thin, determined -young man with an odd trick of throwing his right leg out and around -as he walked and toeing in with the right foot--marched straight across -town, under the Sixth Avenue Elevated, on into Greenwich Village; let -himself into a rather dingy apartment building and then into a bare -little three-rooms-and-bath from which not two hours back he had helped -carry a big trunk, and dropped into the armchair in the living-room. And -his hands shook with excitement as he lighted his pipe. - -"I'm a wild man!" he informed himself--"perfectly wild! It's not a bad -thing!" - -He slept, the last few hours of the night, on a bare mattress. But then -a bachelor of a whimsical turn can make-shift now and then. - -All this on the Saturday. On the Monday morning early, between eight and -nine, there was giggling and fumbling at the apartment door, followed by -a not over-resolute knock. - -The Worm--pipe in mouth, wearing his old striped pajamas caught across -the chest with a safety-pin,--dropped his pen, snorted with impatience, -and strode, heedless of self to the door. - -There stood an elated, abashed couple. Hy Lowe, still dapper, apparently -very happy; Betty, glancing at him with an expression near timidity. - -"Of all things!" she murmured, taking in the somewhat unconventional -figure before her. - -"You, Worm!" chuckled Hy blithely. "Why, you old devil!" - -Henry Bates was looking impatiently from one to the other. "Well," said -he--"what do you want?" - -Hy looked at Betty; Betty looked at Hy. She colored very prettily; he -leaned against the wall and laughed softly there until his eyes filled, -laughed himself weak. Finally he managed to observe to the irate figure -on the sill, who held his pipe in a threatening attitude and awaited an -explanation--"My son, are you aware that the lady lives here? Also that -you could hardly be termed overdressed." She spoke now, softly, with -hesitation-- - -"Where is Sue, Mr. Bates?" - -He waved his pipe. "Gone--New Jersey." - -Betty seemed to recollect. "Oh, yes," she murmured. "And wasn't there -something--the other day, when was it--" - -She exchanged a helplessly emotional glance with the partly sobered Hy. - -"--Saturday it must have been. Oh, of course, you wanted me to pack -Sue's things." - -"They're packed," snapped the Worm. "And gone." - -"And what, pray, are you doing here?" This from Hy. - -"Living here," said the Worm. - -Again the two sought each other's eyes. - -"Well, really--" Hy began. - -Betty rested her hand on his arm. "Perhaps, Mr. Bates--you see, some of -my things are here--some things I need--" - -Suddenly the Worm remembered. He blushed; then seemed to grow more -angry. - -"You'd better come in and get them," said he. - -"Well--if I might--" - -They came in. Betty repacked her bog in the bedroom. Once she called to -Hy; they whispered; then he brought her his bag. - -Next Hy stood by the window and softly whistled a new rag. Meanwhile the -Worm with a touch of self-consciousness, slipped on his coat. He had no -bathrobe. - -Hy, still whistling, looked at the litter of closely written sheets on -the table. - -"What's this," said he--"writing your novel?" - -"I was," growled the Worm. He stared at the manuscript; then at Hy; then -at the busy, beautiful, embarrassed young woman in the bedroom. - -Suddenly and savagely, he gathered up the papers, tore them down and -across, handful by handful and stuffed them into the fireplace. - -Hy looked on in amazement. - -Betty was ready, and called to him. The Worm, set of face, showed them -out. He did not know that he slammed the door behind them. - -On the steps Betty said--softly, the coo of a mating bird in her -voice--"What a funny man! I'm glad you're not like that, dear." And -slipped her fingers into his. - -Hy returned her pressure; then withdrew his hand, glanced nervously up -and down the street, and hurried her into the taxi that waited at the -curb. - -"One sure thing," he muttered, "we can't eat breakfast _there!_" - -Back in the rooms, the Worm--suddenly, feverishly, eager--laid out a -fresh block of paper, dipped his pen into the ink, and snatching up a -book for a ruler, drew a heavy line across near the top of the page. -Above this line he printed out carefully-- - -THE BOUNDARY - -A NOVEL - -By Henry Bates - -Beneath the line he wrote, swiftly, all nervous energy, sudden red spots -on his haggard cheeks--"CHAPTER ONE." - -"They stood at the door..." - -This, you recall, was the beginning of the strongest novel that has come -out of Greenwich Village in many a year. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII--EARTHY BROWNS AND GREENS - -|AT about two o'clock in the afternoon on a Saturday in early September -Sue Wilde opened a letter from the Worm. - -Before dropping on the stiff walnut chair Sue had closed the door; -ruffled by the feeling that it must be closed, conscious even of guilt. -For it was a tenet of Aunt Matilda's, as of Mrs. Wilde's, that a -woman should not sit down before mid-afternoon, and not then on -Mondays, Wednesdays or Saturdays. And here her bed was not yet made. - -"Dear Sue (so the letter ran)--Herewith my check for the September rent. -Sorry to be late. I forgot it." - -The letter sank to her lap. Pictures rose--memories. She saw the -half-furnished little apartment on Tenth Street, in the heart of the old -Village where she had spent the two busiest, most disturbing, yet--yes, -happiest years of her life. - -"There's a little news, some of which I can't tell you. Not until I -know--which may be by the time this reaches you. In that case, if the -news is anywhere near what I'm fool enough, every other minute, to hope, -I shall doubtless be rushing post haste to see you and tell you how it -all came about. I may reach you in person before this letter does. At -present it is a new Treasure Island, a wildly adventurous comedy of -life, with me for the hero--or the villain. That's what I'm waiting to -be told. But it's rather miraculous." - -It was like Henry Bates to write mysteriously. He was excited; or he -wouldn't be threatening to come out. It had been fine of him to keep -from coming out. He hadn't forced her to ask it of him. She knew he -wanted to. Now, at the thought that he almost certainly was coming, her -pulse quickened. - -There was a sound in the hall, a cautious turning of the door-knob. - -Flushing, all nerves and self-consciousness, she leaped up, thrust the -letter behind her, moved toward the bed that had not yet been made. - -The shyly smiling face of a nine-year-old girl appeared. - -"Oh, is it you, Miriam!" breathed Sue. - -"And Becky. _If_ we were to come in--" - -"Come along and shut the door after you." - -The children made for the closet where hung certain dancing costumes -that had before this proved to hold a fascination bordering on the realm -of magic. Sue resumed her letter. - -"Zanin is part of the news, Sue. He seems to have hit on prosperity. -There are whispers that the great Silverstone has taken him up in -earnest, sees in him the making of a big screen director. Z. himself -told me the other night at the Parisian that he is going to put on a -film production that will make _The Dawn of an Empire_ and his own (and -your) Nature look like the early efforts of an amateur. - -"There's still another piece of news I'm bursting with. I can't believe -you don't know. But you haven't asked--haven't mentioned it in your -letters. And Zanin told me he was wholly out of touch with you. It is -hard to believe that you don't know it. For this bit of news is about -you. The other that I spoke of first, is about me--a smaller matter. -Lord, but you have buried yourself. Sue! You certainly went the whole -thing. - -"Zanin, by the way, and that Belgian girl--Heléne something or other; -you know, works in pastels, those zippy little character portraits, and -dancing girls (didn't she do you, once?)--well, they're inseparable. It -bothers me a little, seeing them always together at the Muscovy and -the Parisian and Jim's. After all the stirring things you and he did -together. She has spruced him up a lot, too. She's dressing him in color -schemes--nice earthy browns and greens. Yes, J. Z. dresses amazingly -well now. He has picked up a little money in these new business -connections of his. But I resent the look of it--as if he had forgotten -you. Though if he hadn't I should be crudely, horribly jealous. - -"If I do come out I'll do my best to look respectable. Tell you -what--I'll put on the good suit I had made especially to propose to you -in. Remember? The time I lost my nerve and didn't say the words. Haven't -worn it since, Sue. And the hat--shoes--cane. I'll wear 'em all! No one -could be more chastely 'suburbaniacal' than Henry Bates will appear on -this significant occasion. Even the forbidding aunt will feel a dawning -respect for the erstwhile Worm--who was not a Worm, after all, but a -chrysalis, now shortly to emerge a glittering, perfect creature. - -"Think not unkindly of your abandoned Villager, - -"Henry B." - -At the ending she chuckled aloud. The letter had carried her far -from the plain room in a rather severe little house which in its turn -conformed scrupulously in appearance to the uniformity that marked the -double row of houses on this suburban street. They were all eyes, those -houses. - -She tried to reconstruct a mental picture of that remarkable costume of -the Worm's. But it was difficult to remember; she had seen it only the -once, months ago, back in the spring. Would he look overdressed? That -would be worse than if he were to wear the old bagging gray suit, soft -collar and flowing tie--and the old felt hat. For the Street might think -him one of her mysteriously theatrical acquaintances from the wicked -city, in which event a new impetus would be given to the whispering that -always ran subtly back and forth between the houses that were all eyes. - -There was other chuckling in the room. The two children stood before -her--Miriam, the elder, a big-eyed girl with a fluff of chestnut hair -caught at the neck with a bow; Becky, small for her seven years, with -tiny hands and feet and a demure mouth. Miriam had about head and -shoulders the Spanish scarf that Sue had worn in Zanin's Carmen ballet -at the Crossroads; Becky had thrust her feet into the red leather boots -of Sue's Russian costume. When they found their half-sister's eye upon -them the two giggled irresistibly. - -Sue felt a warm impulse to snatch them both up in her arms. But she -sobered. This was old ground. Mrs. Wilde, as the wife and widow of an -evangelical minister, felt strongly against dancing. Sue had promised to -keep silent regarding this vital side of her own life. - -Becky shuffled humorously to Sue's knee. Miriam came to her side, leaned -against her shoulder, and gently, admiringly stroked her thick short -hair, now grown to an unruly length but still short enough to disclose -the fine outline of Sue's boyish yet girlish head. - -"Tell us about the time you were a movie actress." This from Miriam. - -Sue, dispirited, shook her head. "You must take off those things, -children., Put them back in the closet. Your mother wouldn't like it if -she saw you." - -Instead of obeying, Miriam leaned close to her ear and whispered: "I've -seen movies. Yesterday with the girls--after school. There was a wild -west one, _Clarice of the Canyon_, and a comedy where he falls through -the ceiling and all the plaster comes down on the bed and then the bed -goes through another ceiling and all. It was awfully funny." - -Sue mentally cast about her for guidance in the part she had promised -to play. She deliberately frowned. "Does your mother know about it, -Miriam?" - -The girl, bright-eyed, shook her head. - -"Then it was wrong." - -Miriam still watched her, finally saying: "Do you know why I told you?" - -Sue, feeling rather helpless, shook her head. - -"Because I knew you wouldn't tell on me." - -Sue pursed her lips. - -She heard a voice from the stair landing, Aunt Matilda's voice. - -"Sue!" it called--"Sue! Some one to see you!" - -The Worm, surely! She sprang up, smoothed her shirt-waist before the -mirror, tried to smooth her unmanageable hair. Her color was rising. She -waited a moment to control this. - -"Sue! Come down!" - -She passed her aunt on the stairs and was detained by a worn hand. - -"It's a man," whispered the older woman--"one of those city friends -cf yours, I take it. Looks like a Jew. Goodness knows what people -will think! As if they didn't have enough to talk about already, -without--this!" - -Sue shook off her hand and ran down the stairs, oblivious now to her -color as to the angry flash in her striking green eyes. It was Zanin, -of course---of all men! What if he had heard! In Greenwich Village there -was none of the old vulgar race prejudice. Zarin was in certain respects -the ablest man she had ever known. But there was no possibility that he -could be understood, even tolerated, in this house on the Street. - -She found him on the front porch where Aunt Matilda had left him. And -for an instant, before extending her hand, she stared. For there stood -the new Zanin--perceptibly fuller in face and figure, less wildly eager -of eye, clad in the earthy brown suit that had so impressed the Worm, -with a soft gray-green shirt that might have been flannel or silk or -a mixture of the two, and a large bow tie and soft hat of a harmonious -green-brown. - -He smiled easily, thoughtfully down at her as he took her hand. Then she -felt him, more sober, more critical, studying her appearance. - -"Well, Sue," he observed--this was indeed a calm, successful-appearing -Zanin--"you're not looking so fit as you might." - -She could say nothing to this. - -"Dancing any?" - -"No. None." She was wondering what to do with him. The choice appeared -to lie between the stuffy parlor and this front porch. Within, the -household would hear every word; out here the eyes of the Street would -watch unrelentingly. With an impassive face and a little shrug, she -remarked, indicating a stiff porch chair-- - -"Sit down, Jacob." - -"I'll take this," said he, dropping down on the top step in the most -conspicuous spot of all. And he smiled at her. - -"You can't guess what brings me, Sue. First, I want you to run in town -this evening." - -She shook her head, slowly. - -"You'd better. It's an unusual event. It wouldn't do to miss it." - -Her eyes wandered toward the hall behind the screen door, then off to -the row of wooden houses across the street. - -"Nevertheless," said she, "it's going to be missed, Jacob." - -He studied her. "I'm debating with myself whether to tell you about -it, Sue. Though it's a wonder you don't know. Haven't you followed the -papers?" - -Again she shook her head. - -"I'm wondering, though," she observed: "from the way you are talking, -and from something Henry Bates said in a letter that came to-day--if it -isn't the Nature film." - -"That's it," said he. "First performance tonight. Really don't you -know?" - -"Not a thing. Jacob." - -"Why, our old friend Silverstone is in on it. He bought out the -Interstellar interest. We're featuring it. At a two-dollar house, -Sue--think of that! _The Dawn of an Empire_ is nowhere. Unless it falls -flat--which it won't!--there'll be a bit of money in it for all of us. -What do you say now, eh!" - -"Money?" mused Sue, incredulous. - -"Regular money--even for the small interest you and Peter and I hold. -But that's only the beginning. Listen here now, Sue! A little time has -gone by. You've hidden yourself out here--let your spirit sag--so I -suppose you may find some difficulty in grasping this. But the Nature -film is you, child. You're half famous already, thanks to the way -we're letting loose on publicity. You're going to be a sensation--a -knock-out--once the blessed public sees that film. Remember this: just -because you decided to be another sort of person you haven't become that -other person. Not for a minute! The big world is tearing right along at -the old speed and you with it. With it? No--ahead of it! That's what our -old _Nature_, that you worked so hard on, is doing for you right now. -Can you grasp that?" - -"Oh, yes," said she listlessly, "I grasp it all right. But you're -wrong in saying it is me. I am another person. Jacob--I couldn't go to -see that film." - -"Couldn't see it?" - -"No." Her lips were compressed. - -"But, Sue--that's outrageous! It's fanatical!" - -"Maybe it is. I can't help it," - -"You mean the frankness--the costuming--" - -She pressed her hands over her eyes. "And people from here will be -slipping in to see it--sneaking in when they think their neighbors won't -see them--and seeing me on exhibition there! And they will whisper. Oh, -the vulgarity of it!... Jacob, don't talk about it. I can't! Please!" - -He studied her, through narrowed eyes. "The poor kid _is_ going through -it!" he thought. "I had no idea!" Deliberately, with the coldness, the -detachment, of his race, he considered the problem. At length he said: - -"I'll tell you my main errand, Sue. I've got an enormous new production -on. It's in my hands, too, as director. Silverstone gives me carte -blanche--that's his way. Big man. Now I've got an eye in my head. I've -seen our _Nature_ run off. And I happen to know that the big movie star -of to-morrow, the sensation of them all, is Miss Sue Wilde. You don't -realize that, of course. All right! Don't try to. But do try to get -_this_. I want you for my new production. And I can offer you more money -than you ever saw in all your life. Not two thousand a week, like Mabel -Wakeford, but a lot. And still you'll be cheaper to my company than -women not half so good who have built up a market value in the film -business. It will be a bargain for us. I brought out a contract ready -for you to sign. Salary begins to-morrow if you say the word. Would you -like to read it over?" - -Her hands were still over her eyes. She shook her head. - -Instead of pressing his business he went on quietly studying her. He -studied the house, too; and the street. After a time he consulted a -time-table and his watch. - -"Sue," he said then, "I'm disappointed." - -"I'm sorry, Jacob." She looked up now and threw out her hands. "But you -couldn't understand. I couldn't look at that film, at myself doing those -things. It's a thing that's--well, Jacob, it is repellent to me now. -It's a thing I wish I hadn't done. I thought I believed it--your theory -of freedom, naturalness, all that. I don't believe it. But all the -same I'm on record there. The most conspicuous girl in the United -States--from what you say--' - -"Easily that, Sue. By to-morrow." - -"--picturing a philosophy I don't believe in. I've been daring almost -to forget it. Now you're bringing it home to me. It is branded on me -now. God knows what it is going to mean! Of course it will follow me -into my home here. And you know what people will think and say--these, -people"--she indicated the orderly street with a sweep of a fine arm -and hand--"they'll think and talk of me as a girl who has done what no -decent girl can do and stay decent--" - -She stopped, choking. He was still coolly observing her. - -"Yes," he said again, "I'm disappointed. I'm afraid it's just as well -for you to give up. You've lost something, Sue." - -He rose. And she let him go in silence; stood looking after him until he -disappeared around the corner. Then she went up to her room. - -The children were still there, serenely happy in unheard-of mischief. -They had all her dancing clothes spread out on the bed. - -She closed the door. The girls giggled nervously; she hardly saw them. -She lifted up the Russian costume and fingered the bright-colored silk. -Dreams came to her mind's eye. She looked at the little boots of red -leather. - -"I wonder," she murmured. - -"Please dance for us," begged Miriam shyly, at her side. She hardly -heard. - -She moved to the side of the room, then leaped out in that bounding, -crouching Russian step. She was stiff, awkward. She stepped back and -tried it again. - -The children laughed in sheer excitement and clapped their hands. -Becky tried to imitate the step, fell over and rolled, convulsed with -laughter, on the floor. - -The door opened and Mrs. Wilde stood on the threshold. She was a tall -thin woman, all in black, with a heavy humorless mouth, pallid skin, -flat pouches under her eyes. - -"Miriam! Becky!" she cried. "Come here instantly!" - -Becky got up. The two children, crestfallen, between sulkiness and a -measure of fear, moved slowly toward the door. The mother stood aside, -ushered them out, then confronted the younger woman. There was a tired -sort of anger in her eyes. The almost impenetrable egotism of her -widowhood had been touched and stirred by the merry little scene. - -"You hold your promises lightly," she said. - -Sue bit her lip, threw out her hands. "It isn't that--" - -"Then what is it?" Mrs. Wilde moved into the room and closed the door. -"I don't quite see what we are to do, Sue. I can't have this sort of -temptation put before them right here, in their home. You know what I -have taught them and what I expect of them. You know' I wish to be kind -to you, but this isn't fair. He--he..." She carried a handkerchief, -heavily bordered with black. This she pressed to her eyes. - -A hot temper blazed in Sue. She struggled with it. Sharp words rushed to -her tongue. She drove them back. - -It occurred to her that she must be considerate; the woman's life had -been torn from its roots, what mind she had was of course overwhelmed. -Sue stood there, her hands clenched at her sides, groping desperately -for some point of mental contact with the woman who had married her -father--forgetting that there had never been a print of mental contact. -Suddenly she recalled a few hot phrases of the Worm's, spoken in regard -to this very matter of her attempt to confine her life within this -gloomy home--"It's Puritan against Cavalier--both right, both wrong! -It's the Greeks against the Greatest of Jews--both right, both wrong! -Beauty against duty, the instinct to express against the instinct to -serve--both right, both wrong!"... Was Henry Bates right? Was the gulf -between her natural self and this home unbridgeable? Motionless, tense, -she tried, all in an instant, to think this through--and failed. A wave -of emotion overwhelmed her, an uprushing of egotism as blind as the -egotism of the woman in black who stood stiffly against the closed -door. It was a clash--not of wills, for Sue's will was to serve--but of -natures. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV--ONE DOES FORGET ABOUT HAPPINESS - -|SUE felt that the woman was about to speak, and suddenly she knew that -she could not listen. Fighting down the rather terrifying force of her -emotions, fighting tears even, she rushed to the door, mutely brushed -Mrs. Wilde aside and ran down the stairs. Sue let herself out on the -front porch, closed the screen door and leaned hack against it, clinging -to the knob, breathless, unstrung. The eyes of the Street would be on -her, of course. She thought of this and dropped into one of the porch -chairs. - -A man turned the corner--a tall, rather young man who wore a shapeless -suit of gray, a limp collar, a flowing bow tie, a soft hat; and who had -a trick of throwing his leg out and around as he walked and toeing in -with the right font. - -He turned in, grinning cheerfully and waving a lean hand. He mounted the -steps. Sue sat erect, gripping the arms of her chair, eyes bright, and -laughed nervously. - -"Henry," she cred, "you're hopeless! Where's the new suit? You're not a -bit respectable." - -He seated himself on the porch railing and gazed ruefully downward. - -"Sue, I'm sorry. Plum forgot. And I swore I'd never disgrace you again. -I _am_ hopeless. You're right." Then he laughed--irresponsibly, happily, -like a boy. - -She stared at him. "What is it, Henry?" - -"Everything, child! You see before you the man who has just conquered -the world. All of it. And no worlds left. Mr. Alexander H. Bates." - -"Oh," said she, thinking swiftly back--"your novel!" - -"Right. My novel." - -"But it isn't finished, Henry." - -"Not quite half done." - -"Then, how can--" - -He raised a long hand and rose. He gazed down benignly at her. "The -greatest publisher in these U. S. has had the good fortune to read the -first fourteen chapters. A whisper blew to me yesterday of the way -things were going--before I wrote you. But the word this morning was not -a whisper. Susan. It was an ear-splitting yell. Mister Greatest -Publisher personally sent for me. Told me he had been looking for -me--exactly me!--these twenty-eight years. And here I am. Money now if I -need it. And do I need it? God, do I need it! And fame later--when I get -the book done. Now, child, tell me how glad you are. At once." - -He walked the porch; came back and stood before her; grinned and -grinned. - -She could not find words. Soberly her eyes followed him. Her set mouth -softened. Her tightened muscles relaxed until she was leaning back limp -in the chair. - -"Isn't it the devil, Sue!" said he. "The one thing my heart was set on -was to wear that good suit. Sue, I was going to put it all over this -suburb of yours--just smear 'em! And look--I have to go and forget. -Nothing comes out to see you but the same disgraceful old gipsy. How -could I?" - -Sue leaned forward. "Henry, I'm glad. I love this old suit. But there's -a button coming loose--there, on your coat." - -"I know, Sue. I sewed at it, but it doesn't hold. I'm meaning to stop at -a tailor's, next time I'm over toward Sixth Avenue." - -She was studying his face now. "You're happy, Henry," she said. - -"Well--in a sense! In a sense!" - -"It is a good thing you came. I was forgetting about happiness." - -"I know. One does." He consulted his watch. "It's five-twenty-two now, -Sue. And we're catching the five-thirty-eight back to town." - -She did not speak. But her eyes met his, squarely; held to them. It -was a forthright eye-to-eye gaze, of the sort that rarely occurs, even -between friends, and that is not soon forgotten. Sue had been white, -sitting there, when he came and after. Now her color returned. - -He bent over and took her elbow. The touch of his hand was a luxury. Her -lids drooped; her color rose and rose. She let him almost lift her from -the chair. Then she went in for her hat and coat; still silent. They -caught the five-thirty-eight. - -"What are we going in for?" she asked, listless again, when they had -found a seat in the train. - -"Oh, come! You know! To see the almost famous Sue Wilde of Greenwich -Village--" - -"Not of the Village now, Henry!" - -"--in the film sensation of the decade. _Nature_, suggested and directed -by Jacob Zanin, written by Eric Mann, presented by the Nature Film -Producing Company, Adolph Silverstone, President. You see, I've been -getting you up, Sue." - -She was staring cut the window gloomily. - -"I swore I wouldn't go, Henry." - -"But that would be a shame." - -"I know--of course. But--Henry, you don't understand. Nobody -understands! I'm not sure I can stand it to sit there and see myself -doing those things--and have to talk with people I know, and--" - -"I think I could smuggle you in," said he, thoughtful. "This isn't a -little movie house, you know. It's a regular theater. There ought to be -a separate gallery entrance. That would make it easy." - -She changed the subject. "Where shall we eat, Henry?" - -"The Parisian?" - -She shook her head. "Let's go to Jim's." - -To Jim's they went; and it seemed to him whimsically watchful eyes -that she had an occasional moment of being her old girlish self as they -strolled through the wandering streets of Greenwich Village and stepped -down into the basement oyster and chop house that had made its name a -full generation before Socialism was more than a foreign-sounding -word and two generations before cubism, futurism, vorticism, imagism, -Nietzsche, the I. W. W., Feminism and the Russians had swept in among -the old houses and tenements to engage in the verbal battle royal that -has since converted the quaint old quarter from a haunt of rather -gently artistic bohemianism into a shambles of dead and dismembered and -bleeding theories. Jim's alone had not changed. Even the old waiter -who so far as any one knew had always been there, shuffled through the -sprinkling of sawdust on the floor; and the familiar fat grandson of the -original Jim was still to be seen standing by the open grill that was -set in the wall at the rear end of the oyster bar. - -The Worm suggested thick mutton chops and the hugely delectable baked -potatoes without which Jim's would not have been Jim's. Sue smiled -rather wanly and assented. Her air of depression disturbed him; his own -buoyancy sagged; he found it necessary now and then to manufacture talk. -This was so foreign to the quality of their friendship that he finally -laid down his knife and fork, rested his elbows on the table and -considered her. - -"Sue," he remarked, "it's getting to you, isn't it--the old Village." - -She tried to smile, and looked off toward the glowing grill. - -"Why don't you come around and have a look at the rooms? I haven't -changed them. Only your pictures are gone. Even your books are on the -mantel where you used to keep them. It might hook things up for us, -so we could get to feeling and talking like ourselves. What do you -say--could you stand it?" - -She tried to look at him, tried to be her old frank self; but without -marked success. The tears were close. She had to compress her lips and -study the table-cloth for a long moment before she could speak. - -"I couldn't, Henry." Then with an impulse that was more like the Sue -that he knew, she reached out and rested her hand on his arm. "Try not -to mind me, Henry. I can't help it--whatever it is. I don't seem to have -much fight left in me. It's plain enough that I shouldn't have tried to -come in. It was just a crazy reaction, anyway. You caught me when I had -been hurt. I was all mixed...." - -She was excluding him from her little world now; and this was least like -her of all the things she had been saying and doing. But if the Worm was -hurt he did not show it. He merely said: - -"Sue, of course, you've been going through a nervous crisis, and it has -taken a lot out of you." - -"A lot, Henry," she murmured. - -"One thing strikes me--superficial, of course--I doubt if you've had -enough exercise this summer." - -"I know," said she. "To-day I tried a few steps--that--old Russian -dance, you know--" - -"I'd love to see you do it, Sue." - -She shook her head. "I've lost it--everything." - -"You were stiff, of course." - -"It was painful. I just couldn't dance. I don't like to think of it, -Henry." - -He smiled. "One thing--I've decided to make you walk to the theater. -It's two miles. That'll stir your pulse a bit. And we'll start now." - -She looked soberly at him. "You've lost nothing, Henry. The work you've -done hasn't taken it out of you." - -"Not a hit. On the contrary, Sue." - -"I know. I feel it." - -"No more of the old aimlessness, Susan. No more books--except a look at -yours now and then, because they were yours. God, girl, I'm creating! -I'm living! I'm saying something. And I really seem to have it to say. -That's what stirs you, puts a tingle into your blood." - -She studied him a moment longer, then lowered her eyes. "Let's be -starting," she said. - -"Up Fifth Avenue, Sue?" - -"Oh, yes, Henry!" - -They walked eastward on Waverly Place, across Sixth Avenue. She paused -here and looked up almost fondly at the ugly, shadowy elevated structure -in the twilight. A train roared by. - -"I haven't seen the city for two months," she said. - -"That's a long time---for a live person," said he. - -The dusty foliage of Washington Square appeared ahead. Above it like a -ghost of the historic beauty of the old Square, loomed the marble arch. -The lights of early evening twinkled from street poles and shone warmly -from windows. - -They turned up the Avenue whose history is the history of a century of -New York life. Through the wide canyon darted the taxis and limousines -that marked the beginnings of the city's night activity. The walks were -thronged with late workers hurrying to their homes in the tenements to -the south and west. - -The Parisian restaurant was bright with silver, linen and electric -lights behind the long French windows. He caught Sue giving the old -place a sober, almost wistful glance. - -At Fourteenth Street they encountered the ebb of the turbid human tide -that at nightfall flows east and west across the great Avenue and picked -their way through. - -Above Fourteenth Street they entered the deep dim canyon of loft -buildings. The sweatshops were here from which every noon and every -night poured forth the thousands upon thousands of toilers--underfed, -undersized, prominent of nose, cheek-bones and lips, gesticulating, -spreading and shambling of gait, filling the great Avenue with a low -roar of voluble talk in a strange guttural tongue--crowding so densely -that a chance pedestrian could no more than drift with the slow current. - -The nightly torrent was well over when Sue and the Worm walked through -the blighted district, but each was familiar with the problem; each -had played some small part in the strikes that stirred the region at -intervals. Sue indeed pointed out the spot, just below Twenty-third -Street where she had been arrested for picketing. And the Worm noted -that she had steadied perceptibly as the old associations bit by bit -reasserted their claims on her life. She was chatting with him now, -nearly in the old, easy, forthright way. By the time the huge white -facade of the Public Library came into view, with its steps, terraces, -railings and misty trees, and the crosstown cars were clanging by -just ahead at Forty-second Street, and they were meeting an occasional -bachelor diner-out hurrying past in dinner-coat and straw hat, the Worm -found himself chuckling again. They turned west on Forty-second -Street, crossing Sixth Avenue, Broadway and Seventh Avenue, passing -the glittering hotel on a famous corner and heading for the riotously -whirling, darting, blazing devices in colored light by means of which -each theater of the congested group sought to thrust itself most -violently upon the bewildered optic nerves of the passer-by. - -Opposite one of these the Worm took Sue's arm, very gently, and halted -her on the curb. The evening throng brushed past, heedless of the simply -dressed girl who yet was oddly, boyishly slim and graceful of body, and -who was striking of countenance despite the weariness evident about -the rather strongly modeled mouth and the large, thoughtful green eyes; -heedless, as well, of the lank, shabbily dressed young man who held -her arm and bent earnestly over her. They were atoms in the careering -metropolis, uncounted polyps in the blind, swarming, infinitely -laborious structure that is New York. And they thought themselves, each, -the center of the universe. - -"Sue, dear," said he, "here we are. You're about to see yourself. It -will be an experience. And it won't be what you're thinking and--yes, -dreading. I've seen it--" - -She glanced up in surprise. - -"Last night--an exhibition to the newspaper men." The emotion in his -voice was evident. She glanced up again, something puzzled. "It was -last night--afterward--that I decided on bringing you in. I wouldn't for -anything in the world have missed having you here to-night. Though, -at that, if Mr. Greatest Publisher hadn't warmed my soul with that -wonderful blast of hot air I probably shouldn't have had the nerve. Of -course I knew it would be an ordeal. It's been on my conscience every -minute. But I had to bring you, and I believe you'll understand why, two -hours from now. I'm hoping you will, Sue." - -He hesitated. She waited. Suddenly then, he hurried her across the busy -street and into the dim shelter of the gallery entrance. - -"Zanin was out in front," said he, "With some of the newspaper boys, but -I got you by." - -Many individuals and groups were detaching themselves from the endless -human stream and turning in between the six-foot lithographs at the -main entrance to the theater. More and more steadily as Sue and the Worm -stood in the shadow of the lesser doorway they had chosen, the crowds -poured in. Others were turning in here toward the gallery and tramping -up the long twisting stairway. - -"Big house!" chuckled the Worm. "Oh, they'll put it across, Sue. You -wait! Zanin's publicity has been wonderful. It would have disturbed you, -girl--but it's rather a shame you haven't followed it." - -Sue seemed not to hear him. She was leaning out from the doorway, trying -to make out the subjects of the two big lithographs. She finally slipped -across to the curb and studied them a moment. Both were of herself, -half-clad in the simple garment of an island savage; over each picture -was the one word, "NATURE," under each the two words, "SUE WILDE." - -She hurried back and started up the stairs. The Worm saw that she was -flushing again and that her mouth wore the set look. - -On a landing, holding her back from a group ahead, he said: "Do you -know, Sue, part of the disturbance you feel is just a shrinking from -conspicuousness, from the effective thing. Self-consciousness! Isn't it, -now?" - -But she turned away and kept on. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV--THE NATURE FILM - -|AT that time no moving picture had been given the setting that Jacob -Zanin devised for the Nature film. Zanin had altered the interior of the -building to make it as little as possible like the conventional theater. -Only the walls, galleries and boxes and stage remained as they had -been. The new decorations were in the pale greens and pinks of spring -and were simple. Between foyer and auditorium were palms, with orchids -and other tropical flowers. The orchestra was not in sight. The ushers -were calm girls from the Village--students of painting, designing, -writing, sculpture--dressed modestly enough in a completer drapery of -the sort worn by Sue in the pictures, such a material as Philippine -women weave from grasses and pineapple strands, softly buff and cream -and brown in color, embroidered with exquisite skill in exotic designs. -The stage before the screen (Zanin used no drop curtain) represented -a native village on some imaginary South Sea Island. The natives -themselves were there, quietly moving about the routine of their lives -or sitting by a low fire before the group of huts at one side of the -stage. - -Very likely you saw it. If so, you will understand the difficulty I am -confronted with in describing the place. It made a small sensation, the -theater itself, apart from the Nature film. But a penned description -could not convey the freshness, the quiet charm, the dignity of that -interior. - -The dignity was what first touched Sue. The Worm watched her sidelong as -her eyes roved from the flat surfaces of pure bold color on the walls -to the quietly idyllic scene on the stage that managed to look as if it -were not a stage. She exhibited little emotion at first. Her brow was -slightly furrowed, the eyes thoughtful, the mouth set--that was all. She -had gone through the difficult months of enacting the film at first with -enthusiasm, later doggedly. She had early lost her vision of the thing -as a whole; her recollections now were of doing over and over this bit -and that, of a certain youthful actor who had taken it for granted -that a girl who would dress as she had to dress the character could -be casually made love to, of interminable train rides to the outdoor -"locations," of clashes of will between Zanin and the Interstellar -people--of work, quarrels, dust, money and the lack of it and a -cumulative disillusionment. It came to her now that she had lost that -early vision. More, she had forgotten the sincerity and the purpose of -Jacob Zanin, that beneath his cold Jewish detachment he believed this -thing--that the individual must be freed from conformity and (as he saw -it) its attendant hypocrisy by breaking the yoke of the home. It must -be the individual--first, last, always---the glad, free individual--the -will to live, to feel, to express. - -It was the Village jargon, done into something near a masterpiece. Sue -began to see as the film unrolled before her eyes, reel by reel, that -Zanin had never for a moment lost his dream. Even now, merely sitting -in that steep crowded gallery waiting for the first reel of the ten, Sue -knew that he had never lost it. Nor had Peter. The thought was exciting. -It brought the color back to her cheeks. Her lips parted slightly. She -was feeling again the enthusiasm Peter's scenario had roused in her at -the start, but with a new intensity. The Worm, at her side, watching -every slight subtle change of that young face, forgot his own stirring -news of the morning, forgot that he was Alexander H. Bates, and the -expression of a man who had bcen long hungry crept into his eyes. - -The Nature film, you recall, pictured an imaginary people, simple, even -primitive, untouched by what men call civilisation. To their secluded -island comes the ship of an explorer, suggesting by its outlines and -rigging and the costumes of officers and crew, the brave days of Captain -Cook, or perhaps a period half a century earlier. The indefiniteness of -it was baffling and fascinating. At no point did it date! And the island -was not one of those that dot the South Seas, at least the inhabitants -were not savages. They were intelligent, industrious, gentle. But the -women hunted and fished with the men. Love--or passion, at least--was -recognized for the impermanent gust it so often is--and, as such, was -respected. No woman dreamed of tying herself for life to a lover she no -longer loved. Neither want nor respectability could lower her pride to -that point. Fatherhood, apparently, was not fixed, a hint being conveyed -that the men as a group were bound to contribute to the welfare of young -mothers. Thus the men were perhaps less glad and free than the women; -indeed there was more than a suggestion of matriarchy.... To this -community, thrown by an accident on its shores, the hundred odd men from -the ship brought a habit of discipline, a holy book (that was and was -not the Bible), a rigid marriage law, a complete hard theory of morality -with attached penalties, plenty of firearms, hogshead upon hogshead -of strong liquor, and underlying everything else an aggressive -acquisitiveness that showed itself in the beginning as the trading -instinct and later, of course, became politics and control. - -In some measure it was the old obvious outcry against the conquest -of weak and simple peoples. Or the situation at the start indicated -something of the sort. But the story that grew out of the situation was -less obvious. Indeed, developed by Peter, with his theatrical skill, out -of Zanin's raw anarchism, it was a drama of quality and power. Zanin -had been able to make nothing more out of it than a clash of social -theories. Peter had made it a clash of persons; and through the -deliberate development of this clash ran, steadily increasing in -poignancy and tragic force straight to the climax of assassination, the -story of a girl. Peter himself did not know how good it was. Not -until he read about it in the papers (after which he became rather -irritatingly complacent regarding it). For you will remember, Peter was -crazily pursuing that girl when he wrote it. And the girl was boldly, -wonderfully Sue--a level-eyed, outspoken young woman, confronting life; -ashamed of nothing, not her body, not her soul; dreaming beautifully of -freedom, of expressing herself, of living her life, vibrant with health, -courage, joy. - -The girl, you know, fell in love with a young sailor and gave herself -proudly and freely. The sailor could not comprehend her, became furtive -and jealous. They quarreled. To quiet her he was driven to brutality. -For he was a respectable man and held his reputation high. The affair -became known. The men of the ship, muttering strange words about a -custom called marriage, held her as bad, fell on the age-old decision -that she must continue to be, bad, at their call, though furtively. For -they were all respectable men. - -Then we saw the girl as an outcast, fed, for a time, secretly by the -cowed bewildered tribe. We saw her as a dishonored mother, fighting the -sea, the forest, the very air for sustenance. We caught glimpses of the -new community, growing into a settlement of some stability, the native -men forced into the less wholesome labor, then wives and daughters taken -and poisoned with this strange philosophy of life. Then we saw our girl, -her child toddling at her heels, creeping back into the society where -trade and politics, hard liquor (distilled now from the native grain), -that holy book of mysterious spell, the firearms and an impenetrable -respectability reigned in apparent security over smoldering fires. And -finally we saw the girl, not at all a penitent, but a proud inspired -creature of instinct, fan those fires until they purged the taint of -sophistication from each slumbering native soul and drove a half-mad -people at the desperate job of extermination and of reasserting -itself as a people on the old lawlessly happy footing. They burned the -hogsheads of liquor, the firearms, the heap of holy books, on one great -bonfire. - -I am not doing it justice. But this much will serve to recall the story. - -As for Zanin's propaganda, I doubt if it cut in very deeply. Critics and -public alike appeared to take it simply as a novelty, a fresh sensation -as they had taken Reinhardt and the Russian Ballet. The primitiveness -of it reached them no more clearly than the primitiveness of Wagner's -operas reached them. The clergy stormed a bit, of course; but not -because they comprehended the deeply implied anarchistic motive. They -were concerned over Zanin's rather unbending attitude toward a certain -book. And Zanin; delighted, fed columns of controversy to the afternoon -papers, wrote open letters to eminent divines, and in other ways turned -the protest into a huge success of publicity. Then a professional -objector, apparently ignorant of the existence of an enticing and -corrupting "Revue" across the street, haled Zanin, Silverstone and two -of the Interstellar people into court on the ground that the costuming -was improper. This matter Zanin, after the newspapers had done it full -justice, compromised by cutting out twenty-two feet of pictures and one -printed explanation which seemed to the professional objector to justify -child-birth out of wedlock. - -No, beyond these brief attacks of virtue, I have never been able to see -that the great city did not pulse along about as before. Broadway and -Forty-second Street held their usual evening throngs. The saloons and -hotel bars took in fortunes from the flushed, sometimes furtive men that -poured out between the acts of that "Revue." Gamblers gambled, robbers -robbed; the glittering hotels thrived; men bought and sold and centered -on the ugly business of politics and bargained with the nameless girls -that lurked in shadowy doorways--but furtively, of course, with an eye -to respectability. And in parsonages on side streets clergymen studied -the precise attitude of Paul toward the doctrine of Free Will or wrote -(for Sunday evening) of the beautiful day that was close at hand -when all men should sing in harmony and not discord, with harp -accompaniment.... No, I think, despite Zanin's purpose, despite Sue's -blazing faith, what really triumphed was Peter Mann's instinct for a -good story. It was the story that held them, and the real beauty of the -pictures, and the acting and personal charm and sincerity of Sue Wilde. - -All this, or something, held Sue herself. For it did catch her. She -had thought she knew everything about the Nature film; whereas she -knew everything about it but the Nature film. At first, naturally, her -self-consciousness clung a little; then it fell away. She sat with an -elbow on the arm of the seat, chin on hand, never once taking her eyes -from the screen, hardly aware of the dense audience about her, no more -than barely hearing the skilfully selected Russian music of the hidden, -very competent orchestra. - -There were two intermissions. During the first she tried to chat and -failed. In the second, when the Worm suggested a turn in the open air -she merely shook her head, without looking up. And that hungry look -deepened in the Worm's eyes. - -Toward the end, when the buffeted but unbowed young woman was fighting -with the strength of inspired despair for the one decent hope left to -her, the hope of personal freedom, Peter's story reached its highest -point. As did Sue's acting. The girl herself, sitting up there in the -gallery, head bowed, shading with a slim hand her wet eyes, leaned more -and more closely against the dear whimsical friend at her side. When his -groping hand found hers she clung to it as honestly as the girl on the -screen would have done. - -It was over. For a moment the house was in darkness and silence. This -was another of Zanin's effects. Then the lights came on dimly; the -concealed orchestra struck softly into another of those Russian things; -the primitive people on the stage, you suddenly saw, were quietly going -on about the simple business of their village. A girl like Sue walked -on, skilfully picked out by the lighting. The audience caught the -suggestion and turned where they stood in seat-rows, aisles and -entrances to applaud wildly. Still another Zaninesque touch! - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI--APRIL! APRIL! - -|SLOWLY the crowd in the gallery moved out and down the twisting flights -of stairs. Sue slipped her arm through the Worm's and silently clung to -him. They were very close in spirit. Down at the street entrance, she -said, "I don't want to see anybody, Henry." So he hurried her across the -street through a lane in the after-theater traffic and around the corner -into Seventh Avenue, heading south. - -"We'll have a bite somewhere, Sue," said he then, Her head inclined in -assent. - -"Somewhere up around here and not on Broadway. Where we won't see a -Soul." Her arm was still in his. She felt him draw a sudden deep breath. -"Oh, Sue--if only I could take you down to the old rooms--make a cup of -coffee--sit and look at you curled up in your own big chair--" He broke -OFF. Sue, still half in a dream, considered this. - -"Why, I don't know, Henry--If you--" - -His arm now pressed hers so tightly against his side that it hurt her a -little. - -"No!" he said in a low rough voice. "No!" - -She was silent. - -"Can't you see what's the matter, girl? I couldn't do it. I'd never let -you go--never! I'm insane with love for you. I'm full of you--throbbing, -singing, thrilling with you!" - -Again he stopped short They walked on slowly, arm in arm. She glanced up -at his face. It was twisted, as with pain. - -She tried to think. Every way lay confusion. Suddenly she freed her arm. - -"Henry--" she began; then walked on a dozen steps before she could -continue. "You have a timetable, Henry?" - -"Oh--Sue!" - -"Please, Henry! I can't miss that late train. I have no key, as it is, -It will be difficult enough." They walked another block, moving steadily -toward the Pennsylvania-Station-Herald-Square region whence all roads -lead out into Long Island and New Jersey. She did not know what he would -say or do. It was a relief when finally he found the time-table in his -pocket and handed it to her. - -She stood under a street light to puzzle out the cabalistic tangle of -fine print. - -"What time is it now, Henry?" - -He held out his watch for her to see. - -"Yes, I can make it. I hate the tube, but there isn't time now for the -ferry. Come as far as Herald Square with me, Henry." - -There at the stairway under the elevated road she gripped his hand for -an instant, then ran lightly down into the underground station. And not -until the smoky local train, over in Jersey, was half-way out to the -village that she now called home did it come to her that he had spoken -not one word after the little episode of the time-table. She could see -his face, too, with that look of pain on it. - -She rang and rang at the door. Finally she knocked. Aunt Matilda came -then, silent, grim, and let her in. - -Her room was as she had left it when she rushed out in the afternoon. -The dancing clothes lay on the bed. Rather feverishly she threw them on -a chair. The Russian costume fell to the floor. She let it lie there. - -She slept little; but, wide-eyed, all tight nerves, lay late. She heard -them go off to Sunday-school, at quarter past nine. The children would -be back at eleven; but Mrs. Wilde and Aunt Matilda, if they followed -their custom, would stay on to church. That is, unless Mrs. Wilde should -have one of her nervous headaches. Sue hoped they would stay. It seemed -to her that by noon she should be able to get herself in hand. - -She lay a while longer. Then went down-stairs in her kimono and warmed -up the coffee Aunt Matilda had left on the stove. She tried to eat -a little bread, but had to give it up. She began to wonder, a thought -frightened now, if she could get herself in hand by noon. Aunt Matilda's -appearance, when she came in, had been forbidding. This morning no one -had come near her, not even the children. - -Slowly she mounted the stairs. Aimlessly she began dressing. - -The Russian costume on the floor held her eye. She picked it up, -lingered it. Then she put it on. One of the red boots was on the chair, -the other under the bed. She found this and drew them both on. Next she -got the gay cap from the closet. - -She stood before the mirror. It seemed to her that her color was slowly -returning. She slapped her cheeks to hasten it. Her thoughts were in a -strange confusion. Just as she had been doing all night, she tried again -to visualize her memories of those hard busy days of working out the -Nature film, tried to build out of what she could faintly, brokenly -piece together the picture as she had now seen it, a complete created -thing. But it was a jumble; it always went back to a bit of this -experience and a bit of that. She tried to believe that the stirring, -confident, splendid young creature on the screen was herself.... She -pressed her palms against her temples. She could have cried out. - -It was a relief to fall into one, then another of the old exercises -preliminary to the dance. She went at these hard, until she could feel -the warm blood tingling in her finger tips. Then she tried out that -difficult Russian step. It did not come easily. There was effort in it. -And her balance was not good. Then, too, the room was too small. - -After a moment's hesitation she ran down-stairs, shut herself into the -parlor, moved the furniture back against the walls, went methodically to -work. - -Outside, a little later, the human materials for a romantic comedy were -swiftly converging on her She did not know it. She did not once glance -out the window. She heard nothing but the patter of her own light steps, -the rustle of her silken costume, the clinking of the metals in the -heels of the red boots that was meant to suggest the jingle of spurs. - -[Illustration: 0429] - -Mrs. Wilde did have one of her headaches. She came home from -Sunday-school with the children, leaving Aunt Matilda to uphold the good -name of the household by remaining alone for church. - -When the tall woman and the two little girls--the girls demure, the -woman gloomy in her depth of sorrow--turned in at the front walk, a tall -young man, in a baggy old gray suit, with a trick of throwing his right -leg out and around as he walked and toeing in with the right foot, was -rounding the corner, rushing along with great strides. His brow was -knit, his manner distrait but determined. - -The parlor door opened. Mrs. Wilde stood there, speechless. The girls -crowded forward, incredulous, eager, their eyes alight. Becky jumped up -and down and clapped her small hands. Mrs. Wilde suppressed her with a -slap. The child began to whimper. - -Sue stood in the middle of the room, flushed, excited, a glowing picture -from a Bakst album. - -Mrs. Wilde, bewildered, struggling for speech, gazed at the outraged -furniture. - -Sue, catching a new sound, stared past her at a lanky figure of a man -who stood at the screen door. Then with a sudden little cry, she rushed -out to him. He opened the door and stepped within. Her arms flew around -his neck. His arms held her close. He lifted her chin with a reverent -hand, and kissed her lips. He did not know there was another person in -the world. - -Mrs. Wilde swept the children into a corner where they might not see. - -"Sue," she cried. "Are you crazy? Have you no sense--no shame?" - -Sue threw hack her head, choked down a sound that might have been a -laugh or a sob. Her eyes were radiant. "Thank God," she cried--"None!" - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII--REENTER MARIA TONIFETTI - -|IT was the opening of Peter Ericson ("Eric",) Mann's new play, _The -Truffler_, at the Astoria Theater on Broadway where the signs never fail -and where to have your name blazoned in electric lights above a theater -entrance is to be advertised to a restless but numerically impressive -world. Peter's name was up there now. It was, you might have supposed, -his big night. But Peter was not among the eight or nine hundred -correctly dressed men and women that pressed in expectantly through the -wide doorway. Instead, clad in his every-day garments, an expression -of ill-controlled irritation on his lung face, moody dark eyes peering -resentfully out through his large horn-rimmed glasses, he sat alone in -the gallery, second row from the front, on the aisle. - -Four rows behind him and a little off to the left, sat a good-looking -young woman, an Italian girl apparently, who stared down at him in some -agitation. She, too, was alone. He had not seen her when he came in; he -did not know that she was there. - -The two seats in the front row across the aisle were vacant until just -before the musicians climbed from the mysterious region beneath the -stage into the orchestra pit down front and the asbestos curtain slid -upward and out of sight. Then a rather casually dressed young couple -came down the aisle and took them. - -Peter, when he saw who they were, stiffened, bit his lip, turned away -and partly hid his face with his program. The girl was Sue Wilde, the -one person on earth who had the power of at once rousing and irritating -him merely by appearing within his range of vision. Particularly when -she appeared smiling, alert and alive with health and spirit, in the -company of another man. When a girl has played with your deepest -feelings, has actually engaged herself to marry you, only to slip out of -your life without so much as consulting you, when she has forced you to -take stern measures to bring her to her senses--only to turn up, after -all, radiant, just where you have stolen to be alone with your otherwise -turbulent emotions--well, it may easily be disturbing. - -The other man, on this occasion, was the Worm. - -Peter knew that the Worm, like Hy, had disapproved of the steps he had -taken to waken the truffling Sue to a sense of duty, the steps he had -been forced to take. It is not pleasant to be disapproved of by old -companions; particularly when you were so clearly, scrupulously right in -all you have done. Still more unpleasant is it when one of the -disapprovers appears with the girl whose selfish irresponsibility caused -all the trouble. Sue's evident happiness was the climax. It seemed to -Peter that she might at least have the decency to look--well, chastened. - -I spoke a moment back of other disturbances within Peter's highly -temperamental breast. They had to do with the play. The featured -actress, Grace Derring, also was potentially a disturber. If you have -followed Peter's emotionally tortuous career, you will recall Grace. -With his kisses warm on her lips, protesting her love for him, she had -rewritten his play behind his back, tearing it to pieces, introducing -new and quite false episodes, altering the very natures of his -painstakingly wrought out characters, obliterating whatever of himself -had, at the start, been in the piece. He had been forced to wash his -hands of the whole thing. He had kept away from Neuerman and -Grace Derring all these painful months. He had answered neither -Neuerman's business letters nor Grace's one or two guarded little notes. -It had perturbed turn to see his name used lavishly (Neuerman was -a persistent and powerful advertiser) on the bill-boards and in the -papers. It had perturbed him to-night to see it on the street in blazing -light. And now it was on the program in his hand!... To be sure he had -not taken steps to prevent this use of his name. He had explained to -himself that Neuerman had the right under the contract and could hardly -be restrained. But he was perturbed. - -So here was the great night! Down there on the stage, in a few minutes -now, Grace Derring, whose life had twisted so painfully close to his, -would begin enacting the play she and Neuerman had rebuilt from his own -inspired outburst. Up here in the gallery, across the aisle, one row -down, sat at this moment, the girl who had unwittingly inspired him to -write it; She was smiling happily now, that girl. She did not know -that the original play--_The Trufiler_ as he had conceived and written -it--was aimed straight at herself. It was nothing if not a picture -of the irresponsible, selfish bachelor girl who by her insistence on -"living her own life" wrecks the home of her parents. Peter's mouth set -rather grimly as he thought of this now. As he saw it, Sue had done just -that. Suddenly--he was looking from behind his hand at her shapely -head; her hair had grown to an almost manageable length--a warm thought -fluttered to life in his heart. Perhaps it wasn't, even yet, too late! -Perhaps enough of his original message had survived the machinations -of Neuerman and Grace Derring to strike through and touch this girl's -heart--sober her--make her think! It might even work out that... he had -to set his teeth hard on the thoughts that came rushing now. It was as -if a door had opened, letting loose the old forces, the old dreams (that -is, the particular lot that had concerned his relations with Sue) that -he had thought dead, long since, of inanition.... Confused with -all these dreams and hopes, these resentments and indignations, was a -thought that had been thrusting itself upon him of late as he followed -Neuerman's publicity. It was that the play might succeed. However bad -Grace had made it, it might succeed. This would mean money, a little -fame, a thrilling sense of position and power. - -Sue glanced around. Her elbow gently pressed that of the Worm. "It's -Peter," she said low. "He doesn't see us." - -The Worm glanced around now. They were both looking at Peter, rather -eagerly, smiling. The eminent playwright gazed steadily off across the -house. - -"He looks all in," observed the Worm. - -"Poor Peter"--this from Sue--"these first nights are a frightful -strain." - -"Pete!" the Worm called softly. - -He had to see them now. He came across the aisle, shook hands, peered -gloomily, self-consciously down at them. - -"Hiding?" asked Sue, all smiles. - -Peter's gloom deepened. "Oh, no," he replied. - -"Evidently you're not figuring on taking the author's call," said the -Worm, surveying Peter's business suit. - -The playwright raised his hand, moved it lightly as if tossing away an -inconsiderable thing. - -"Why should I? I'm not interested. It's not my play." - -The Worm was smiling. What was the matter with them--grinning like -monkeys! Couldn't they at least show a decent respect for his feelings? - -"There is a rather wide-spread notion to the contrary," said the Worm. - -"Oh, yes"--again that gesture from Peter---"my name is on it. But it is -not my play." - -"Whose is it then?" - -Peter shrugged. "How should I know? Haven't been near them for five -months. They were all rewriting it then. They never grasped it. -Neuerman, to this day, I'm sure, has no idea what it is about. Can't say -I'm eager to view the remains." - -The orchestra struck up. Peter dropped back into his seat. He raised his -program again, and again watched Sue from behind it. He had managed to -keep up a calm front, but at considerable cost to his already racked -nervous system. Sue's smile, her fresh olive skin, her extraordinary -green eyes, the subtly pleasing poise of her head on her perfect neck, -touched again a certain group of associated emotions that had slumbered -of late. Surely she had not forgotten---the few disturbed, thrilling -days of their engagement--their first kiss, that had so surprised them -both, up in his rooms.... - -She couldn't have forgotten! Perhaps his mutilated message _might_ touch -and stir her. Perhaps again.... - -Suddenly Peter's program fluttered to the aisle. He drew an envelope -from one pocket, a pencil from another; stared a moment, openly, at her -hair and the curve of her cheek; and wrote, furiously, a sonnet. - -He crossed out, interlined, rephrased. It was a passionate enough little -uprush of emotion, expressing very well what he felt on seeing again, -after long absence, a woman he had loved--hearing her voice, looking -at her hair and the shadows of it on her temple and cheek--remembering, -suddenly, with a stab of pain, the old yearnings, torments and -exaltations. Peter couldn't possibly have been so excited as he was -to-night without writing some-thing. His emotions had to come out. - -The lights went down. The music was hushed. There was a moment of -dim silence; then the curtain slowly rose. The sophisticated, -sensation-hungry nine hundred settled back in their seats and dared the -play to interest them. - -I have always thought that there was a touch of pure genius in the job -Grace Derring did with _The Truffler_. Particularly in her rewriting -of the principal part. On the side of acting, it was unquestionably -the best thing she had done--perhaps the best she will ever do. The -situation was odd, at the start. Peter--writing, preaching, shouting at -Sue---had let his personal irritation creep everywhere into the structure -of the play. He was telling her what he thought she was--a truffler, a -selfish girl, avoiding all of life's sober duties, interested only in -the pursuit of dainties, experimenting with pleasurable emotions. He had -written with heat and force; the structure of the piece was effective -enough. The difficulty (which Grace had been quick to divine) was -that he had made an unsympathetic character of his girl. The practical -difficulty, I mean. I am not sure that the girl as Peter originally -drew her was not a really brilliant bit of characterization. But on -the American stage, as in the American novel, you must choose, always, -between artistic honesty and "sympathy." The part of commercial wisdom -is to choose the latter. You may draw a harsh but noble character, -a weak but likable character, you may picture cruelty and vice as a -preliminary to Wesleyan conviction of sin and reformation; but never -the unregenerate article. You may never be "unpleasant." All this, of -course, Peter knew. The adroit manipulating of sympathy was the thing, -really, he did best. But when he wrote _The Truffler_ he was too excited -over Sue and too irritated to write anything but his real thoughts. -Therefore the play had more power, more of freshness and the surface -sense of life, than anything else he had written up to that time. And -therefore it was commercially impossible. - -Now Grace Herring was a bachelor girl herself. - -She knew the life. She had foregone the traditional duties--marriage, -home-building, motherhood--in order to express her own life and gifts. -She had loved--unwisely, too well--Peter. Like Peter, she approached the -play in a state of nerves. As a practical player she knew that the -girl would never win her audience unless grounds could be found for -the audience to like her despite her Nietzschean philosophy. What she -perhaps saw less clearly was that in her conception of the part she had -to frame an answer to Peter's charges. Probably, almost certainly, -she supposed the play something of a personal attack on her own life. -Therefore she added her view of the girl to Peter's, and played her as -a counter attack. If it had been real in the writing to Peter, it was -quite as real in the playing to Grace. The result of this conflict of -two aroused emotional natures was a brilliant theatrical success. Though -I am not sure that the play, in its final form, meant anything. I am -not sure. It was rather a baffling thing. But it stirred you, and in the -third act, made you cry. Everybody cried in the third act. - -The curtain came slowly down on the first act. The lights came slowly -up. A house that had been profoundly still, absorbed in the clean-cut -presentment of apparently real people, stirred, rustled, got up, moved -into the aisles, burst into talk that rapidly swelled into a low roar. -The applause came a little late, almost as if it were an after-thought, -and then ran wild. There were seven curtain calls. - -Down-stairs, two critics--blasé young men, wandered out into the lobby. - -"Derring's good," observed one. "This piece may land her solid on -Broadway." - -"First act's all right," replied the other casually, lighting a -cigarette. "I didn't suppose Pete Mann could do it." - -Up in the gallery, Sue, looking around, pressed suddenly close to the -Worm, and whispered, "Henry--quick! Look at Peter!" - -The playwright stood before his aisle seat, staring with wild eyes up at -the half-draped plaster ladies on the proscenium arch. A line of persons -in his row were pressing toward the aisle. A young woman, next to him, -touched his arm and said, "Excuse me, please!" Sue and the Worm heard -her but not Peter. He continued to stare--a tall conspicuous man, in -black-rimmed glasses, a black ribbon hanging from them down his long -face. His hand raised to his chest, clutched what appeared to be an -envelope, folded the long way. Plainly he was beside himself. - -The crowd in the aisle saw him now and stared. There was whispering. -Some one laughed. - -Again the young woman touched his arm. - -He turned, saw that he was blocking the row, noted the eyes on him. -became suddenly red, and stuffing the folded envelope into his pocket -and seizing his hat, rapidly elbowed his way up the aisle. - -Immediately following this incident attention was shifted to another. -A good-looking young woman, apparently an Italian, who had been sitting -four rows behind Peter and oft to the left, was struggling, in some -evident excitement, to get out and up the aisle. Her impetuosity made -her as conspicuous as Peter had been. - -Sue, still watching the crowd that had closed in behind the flying -Peter, noted the fresh commotion. - -"Quite an evening!" she said cheerfully. "Seems to be a lady playwright -in our midst, as well." - -The Worm regarded the new center of interest and grew thoughtful. He -knew the girl. It was Maria Tonifetti, manicurist at the sanitary barber -shop of Marius. He happened, too, to be aware that Peter knew Maria. He -had seen Pete in there getting his nails done. Once, this past summer, -he had observed them together on a Fifth Avenue bus. And on a Sunday -evening he had met them face to face at Coney Island, and Peter had gone -red and hurried by. Now he watched Maria slipping swiftly up the aisle, -where Peter had disappeared only a moment before. He did not tell Sue -that he knew who she was. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII--PETER STEALS A PLAY - -|PETER rushed like a wild man down the stairs to the street. He looked -up street and down for a cruising taxi; saw one at the opposite curb; -dodged across, behind automobiles and in front of a street-car. A -traffic policeman shouted from the corner. Peter was unaware, he dove -into the taxi, shouting as he did so, the address of the rooms in -Washington Square. The taxi whirled away to the south. Peter, a blaze -of nerves, watched the dial, taking silver coins from his pocket as the -charge mounted. At his door, he plunged out to the walk, threw the money -on the driver's seat, dashed into the old bachelor apartment building. -The rooms had been lonely of late without Hy and the Worm. Now, his mind -on the one great purpose, he forgot that these friends had ever lived. -He ran from the elevator to the apartment door, key in hand, -hurried within and tore into the closet. He emerged with his evening -clothes--the coat on the hanger, the trousers in the press--and his -patent leather shoes. From a bureau drawer he produced white silk -waistcoat (wrapped in tissue-paper) and dress shirt. A moment more and -he was removing, hurriedly yet not without an eye for buttons and the -crease in the trousers, his business suit. He did not forget to transfer -the folded envelope to the inner pocket of his dress coat. But first he -read the sonnet that was penciled on it; and reread it. It seemed to him -astonishingly good. "That's the way," he reflected, during the process, -standing before the mirror, of knotting his white tie,--"when your -emotions are stirred to white heat, and an idea comes, write it down. No -matter where you are, write it down. Then you've got it." - -He looked thoughtfully at the long serious face that confronted him in -the mirror, made longer by the ribbon that hung from his glasses. His -hair was dark and thick, and it waved back from a high forehead. He -straightened his shoulders, drew in his chin. That really distinguished -young man, there in the mirror, was none other than Eric Mann, the -playwright; author of the new Broadway success, _The Truffler_, a man of -many gifts; a man, in short, of genius. Forgetting for the moment, his -hurry, he drew the folded envelope from his pocket and read the sonnet -aloud, with feeling and with gestures. In the intervals of glancing -at the measured lines, he studied the poet before him. The spectacle -thrilled him. Just as he meant that the poem should thrill the errant -Sue when he should read it to her. He determined now that she should -not see it until he could get her alone and read it aloud. Once before -during this strange year of ups and downs, he had read a thing of his to -Sue and had thrilled her as he was now thrilling himself. Right here in -these rooms. He had swept her off her feet, had kissed her..Well... -He smiled exultingly at the germs in the mirror. Then he had been a -discouraged young playwright, beaten down by failure. How he was--or -shortly would be--the sensation of Broadway, author of the enormously -successful Nature film, and following up that triumph by picking to -pieces the soul of the selfish "modern" bachelor girl--picking it to -pieces so deftly, with such unerring theatrical instinct, that even -the bachelor girl herself would have to join the throngs that would be -crowding into the theater to see how supremely well he did it. More, was -he not minting a new word, a needed word, to describe the creature. "The -Truffler"--truffling--to truffle! - -A grand word; it perfectly hit off the sort of thing. Within ten years -it would be in the dictionaries; and he, Peter Ericson Mann, would have -put it there. He must jog Neuerman up about this. To-morrow. Neuerman -must see to it that the word did get into the language. No time to lose. -A publicity job!... Come to think of it he didn't even know who was -doing the publicity for Neuerman now. He must look into that. To-morrow. -Shrewd, hard-hitting publicity work is everything. That's what lands -you. Puts your name in among the household treasures. People take you -for granted; assume your greatness without exactly knowing why you are -great. Then you're entrenched. Then you're famous. No matter if you -do bad work. They don't know the difference. You're famous, that's all -there is to it. They have to take you, talk about you, buy your books, -go to your plays. Mere merit hasn't a chance against you. You smash 'em -every time... fame--money--power! - -He saw the simply-clad Sue Wilde; short hair all massed shadows and -shining high lights; olive skin with rose in it; the figure of a boy; -all lightness, ease, grace; those stirring green eyes.... - -He would read to her again. His sonnet! From the heart--glowing with the -fire that even in his triumph he could not forget. - -She would listen! - -The third was the "big act"; (there were four in all). All was ready -for the artificial triumph that was to follow it--trained ushers, ticket -sellers, door man, behind the last row of orchestra seats, clapping like -mad. Experienced friends of the management in groups where they could do -the most good. Trick curtains, each suggesting, by grouping or movement -on the stage, the next. Neuerman wanted eight curtains after the big -act. He got them--and five more. For the claques were overwhelmed. -A sophisticated audience that had forgotten for once how to be -cold-blooded, tears drying unheeded on grizzled cheeks, was on its feet, -clapping, stamping, shouting. After the third curtain came the first -shouts for "Author." The shouts grew into an insistent roar. Again and -again the curtain rose on the shifting, carefully devised group effects; -the audience had been stirred, and it wanted the man whose genius had -stirred it. - -Behind, in the prompt corner, there was some confusion. You couldn't -tell that excited mob that Peter Mann hadn't written fifty lines of that -cumulatively moving story. It was his play, by contract. The credit was -his; and the money. But no one had seen him for months. - -After the tenth call Neuerman ordered the footlights down and the -house-lights up. He wore part of a wrinkled business suit; his collar -was a rag; his waistcoat partly unbuttoned. He didn't know where he had -thrown his coat. The sweat rolled in rivulets down his fat face. - -Out front the roar grew louder. Neuerman ordered the house-lights down -again and the footlights up. - -"Here, Grace," he said, to Miss Herring who stood, in the shirt-waist -and short skirt of the part, looking very girlish and utterly -dazed--"for God's sake take the author's call." - -She shook her head. "You take it," she replied. "I couldn't say a -word--not if it was for my life!" - -"Me take it!" He was mimicking her, from sheer nervousness. "_Me_ take -it? In these clothes?" - -She laughed a little at this, absently. Flowers had come to her--great -heaps of them. She snatched up an armful of long-stemmed roses; buried -her face in them. - -Neuerman waved the curtain up again; took her arm, made her go on. She -bowed again, out there, hugging her roses, an excited light in her eyes; -and once more backed off. - -"For God's sake, _say_ something!" cried the manager. - -She ignored this; bent over and looked through the heaps of flowers -for a certain card. It was not there. She pouted--not like her rather -experienced self but like the girl she was playing--and hugged the roses -again. - -For the twelfth time the curtain rose. Again she could only bow. - -Neuerman mopped his forehead; then wrung out his handkerchief. - -"Somebody say something," he cried. "Ardrey could do it." (Ardrey was -the leading man.) "Where's Ardrey? Here you--call Mr. Ardrey! Quick!" - -"I'll take the call," said a quiet voice at his elbow. - -Neuerman gave the newcomer a look of intense relief. - -Miss Derring caught her breath, reached for a scene-support to steady -herself; murmured: - -"Why--Peter!" - -The curtain slid swiftly up. And Peter Ericson Mann, looking really -distinguished in his evening clothes, with the big glasses and the -heavy black ribbon, very grave, walked deliberately out front, faced the -footlights and the indistinct sea of faces, and unsmiling, waited -for the uproar that greeted him to die down. He waited--it was almost -painful--until the house was still.. - -Up in the gallery, Sue Wilde, leaning forward, her chin propped on her -two small fists, said: - -"That beats anything I ever...." She ended with a slow smile. - -The Worm was studying the erect dignified figure down there on the -stage. "You've got to hand it to Pete," said he musingly. "He sensed it -in the first act. He saw it was going to be a knock-out." - -"And," said Sue, "he decided, after all, that it was his play. Henry, -I'm not sure that he isn't the most irritating man on the earth." - -"He's that, all right, Sue, child; but I'm not sure that he isn't a -genius." - -"I suppose they are like that," said Sue, thoughtful. - -"Egotists, of course, looking at everything with a squint--all off -balance! Take Pete's own heroes, Cellini, Wagner--" - -"Hush!" she said, slipping her hand into his, twisting her slim fingers -among his--"Listen!" - -Peter began speaking. His voice was well placed. - -You could hear every syllable. And he looked straight up at Sue. She -noted this, and pressed closer to the man at her side. - -"This is an unfashionable play (thus Peter). If you like it, I am -of course deeply pleased. I did not write it to please you. It is a -preachment. For some years I have quietly observed the modern young -woman, the more or less self-supporting bachelor girl, the girl who -places her independence, her capricious freedom, her 'rights' above -all those functions and duties to others on which woman's traditional -quality, her finest quality, must rest. She is not interested in -marriage, this bachelor girl, because she will surrender no item in her -program of self indulgence. She is not interested in motherhood, because -that implies self-abnegation. She talks economic independence while -profiting by her sex-attraction. She uses men by disturbing them, -confusing them; and thus shrewdly makes her own way. She plays with -life, producing nothing. She builds no home, she rears no young. She -talks glibly the selfish philosophy of Nietzsche, of Artzibasheff. -She bases her self-justifying faith on the hideous animalism of Freud. -She asserts her right, as she says, to give love, not to sell it in -what she terms the property marriage. She speaks casually of 'the free -relation' in love. She will not use the phrase 'free love'; but that, of -course, is what she means. - -"No nation can become better that the quality of its womanhood, of its -motherhood. No nation without an ideal, a standard of nobility, can -endure. We have come upon the days, these devastating days of war, when -each nation is put to the test. Each nation must now exhibit its quality -or die. This quality, in the last analysis, is capacity for sacrifice. -It is endurance, and self-abnegation in the interest of all. It is -surrender--the surrender to principle, order, duty, without which there -can be no victory. The woman, like the man, who will not live for her -country may yet be forced to die for her country. - -"The educated young woman of to-day, the bachelor girl, the 'modern' -girl, will speak loudly of her right to vote, her right to express -herself,--that is her great phrase, 'self-expression'!--her intellectual -superiority to marriage and motherhood. She will insist on what she -calls freedom. For that she will even become militant. These phrases, -and the not very pleasant life they cover, mean sterility, they mean -anarchism, they mean disorganization, and perhaps death. They are the -doctrine of the truffler, the woman who turns from duty to a passionate -pursuit of enjoyment. They are eating, those phrases, like foul -bacteria, at the once sound heart of our national life. - -"So you see, in presenting this little picture of a girl who thought -freedom--for herself--was everything, and of the havoc she wrought in -one perhaps representative home, I have not been trying to entertain -you. I have been preaching at you. If, inadvertently, I have entertained -you as well, so much the better. For then my little sermon will have a -wider audience." - -And, deliberately, he walked off stage. - -On the stairs, moving slowly down from the gallery, Sue and the Worm -looked at each other. - -"I'm rather bewildered," said she. - -"Yes. Nobody knew the play was about all that. But they believe him. -Hear them yelling in there. He has put it over. Pete is a serious artist -now. He admits it." - -"There was rather a personal animus in the speech. Didn't you think so?" - -"Oh, yes. He was talking straight at you. Back last spring I gathered -that he was writing the play at you--his original version of it." - -From one landing to another Sue was silent. Then she said: - -"I never knew such a contradictory man. Why, he wrote the Nature film. -And that is all for freedom." - -The Worm smiled. "Pete never had an idea in his life. He soaks up -atmospheres and then, because he _is_ a playwright and a dam' good -one, he turns them into plays. He sees nothing but effects. Pete can't -_think!_ And then, of course, he sees the main chance. He never misses -that. Why, that speech was pure genius. Gives 'em a chance to believe -that the stuff they love because it's amusing and makes 'em blubber is -really serious and important. Once you can make 'em believe that, you're -made. Pete is made, right now. He's a whale of a success. He's going to -be rich." - -"But, Henry, they'll see through him." - -"Not for a minute!" - -"But--but"--she was laughing a little--"it's outrageous. Here are two -successes--right here on Broadway--both by Peter--each a preachment and -each flatly contradicting the other. Do you mean to say that somebody -won't point it out?" - -"What if somebody does? Who'd care? The public can't think either, you -see. They're like Pete, all they can see is effects. And, of course, -the main chance. They love his effectiveness. And they admire him for -succeeding. I'm not sure, myself, that he isn't on the way to becoming -what they call a great man." - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX--A MOMENT OF MELODRAMA - -|THEY wandered into the crowded lobby. - -Friends were there from Greenwich Village. There was a high buzz of -excitement. Jaded critics were smiling with pleasure; it was a relief, -now and then, to be spared boredom. Peter had spared them. - -Peter himself appeared, wearing his high hat--flushed, his eyes blazing, -but unsmiling. He held a folded envelope against his shirt-front. - -Acquaintances caught at him as he passed. One critic publicly -congratulated him. It was an ovation; or it would have been had he -responded. But he saw, out near the entrance, through the crowd, the -face of Sue Wilde. He pressed through to her side. - -"Sue," he murmured in her ear. "I want to see you? How about to-morrow? -Lunch with me perhaps? I've written something...." - -His excited eyes wandered down to the paper in his hand. - -Sue, smiling a little, suddenly rather excited herself, pulled at the -Worm's elbow. That young man turned. - -"It seems to be across, Pete," he said casually. - -Peter glared at him. - -But the words he might have uttered, by way of putting this too casual -old friend in his place, remained unsaid. For Sue, demure of everything -excepting eyes, remarked: - -"My husband, Peter. We were married to-day." - -The playwright dropped, in one instant, from the pinnacle of fame, money -power, on which, for nearly two hours, he had been exultingly poised. -His chin sagged. His eyes were dazed. A white pinched expression came -over his long face. - -"Married--to-day!" He repeated the words in a flat voice. - -She nodded. "You must congratulate us, Peter. We're dreadfully happy." - -Peter seemed unable, however, to say anything more. He continued to -stare. The beginnings of a low laugh of sheer delight bubbled upward -within Sue's radiant being. Peter heard it, or felt it. Suddenly he -bolted--out through the crowd to the sidewalk. He brushed aside the -enthusiastic hands that would detain him. He disappeared. - -There are conflicting reports as to what occurred after this. _The -Evening Earth_ described the incident as taking place on the sidewalk -directly in front of the theater. _The Press-Record_ had it on the -farther corner, across the side street. _The Morning Bulletin_ and _The -Continental_ agreed that the woman pursued him through the stage door. - -Outside there, the traffic was heavy. Street-cars and motors filled the -street from curb to curb. Women and their escorts were passing out of -and into the famous restaurant that is next door but one to the Astoria. -The sidewalk was crowded as always in the theater district on a fine -September evening. - -MacMerry, dramatic critic of _The Standard_, was the one closest to -it. He had stepped outside to smoke his cigarette, found himself at the -playwright's elbow, and spoke pleasantly to him of the play. He noted at -the time, as he explained later at his club, that Mann was oblivious. He -was very pale, stared straight ahead, and appeared to be drifting with -the crowd. - -The stage entrance to the Astoria is not around the corner, but is a -narrow passage leading back from the street on the farther side of the -restaurant. It was at this point, said MacMerry, that Mann came to -a stop. He seemed dazed. Which was not unnatural, considering the -occasion. - -As he stood there, a young woman rushed forward. She was of an Italian -cast of countenance, not bad-looking, but evidently in a state of -extreme excitement. Apparently she had been standing close to the -building, watching the crowd. She had a knife in her hand. - -This knife she wielded on the playwright. Three or four separate times -she stabbed at his chest, evidently striking for the heart. Trying to -seize her hand, Mann received a slight cut on the fingers. MacMerry -himself finally caught her forearm, threw her back against the building, -and took the knife away from her. By this time, of course, a dense crowd -had pressed about them. And Mann, without a word, had slipped into the -passage leading to the stage. Certainly, when the policeman got through -to the critic's side, Mann was not there. - -They talked it over in the lobby. There the Worm, catching an inkling of -the catastrophe, took a hand. Learning from MacMerry that the girl was -evidently an Italian, he put forth the theory that she had probably -mistaken Pete for a man of her own blood. Peter was dark of hair and -skin. Considering this, MacMerry recalled that Peter had given no sign -of knowing the woman. And he could not recall that she had spoken his -name. He and the Worm then talked this over with the newspaper men that -came rushing to the scene. The theory-found its acceptors. The Worm -pointed out that Peter was a man of quiet manners and of considerable -dignity. He was never a roysterer. His ideas were serious. It was not -likely that the woman had any claim upon him. - -Perhaps the strongest influence working in Peter's interest was the fact -that he was actually, at the moment, bursting into a big success. Every -one, newspaper workers among the others, was glad to help him along. It -was the thing to do. So by midnight all had agreed that it was a case of -mistaken identity. Peter's luck held. - -Meantime a little drama more real than any Peter had yet been credited -with writing was taking place behind the scenes. - -Act four was short; and from curtain to curtain Miss Derring held the -stage. Therefore she had no knowledge of what was taking place in her -dressing-room. Whether Peter came back with any coherent intention -of finding Grace. I can not say. It is not likely. The most intensely -exciting evening of his life had reached its climax in a short scene in -which a young woman had stabbed him. Immediately preceding this event, -he had encountered the astounding fact that the girl it seemed to him -he had always loved more than any one else in the world was -married--married to his old chum. - -As he ran through the dark passage from the street to the stage door, -his hand still clutched the paper on which he had written the sonnet -that was to touch her heart. You are to remember that this bit of verse -had considerable emotional quality and more than a touch of grace. He -had written it on an old envelope, seated in a crowded theater; but -then, Schubert wrote wonderful songs on restaurant menus. It is so that -things are done in the world of temperament.... I don't believe he knew -what he was doing, then or later; perhaps, until the next morning. If -Peter ever knew what he was doing! - -The curtain was already up when he slipped sidewise past the doorman, -through the vestibule, on to the stage. It was dim and still back there. -Far away, beyond the great shadowy cluster of canvas and wood structures -that made up the fourth act set, he could hear Grace's voice. Down -front, by the prompt corner stood a silent little group--four or five -actors, the electrician, the mighty Max Neuerman in his shirt-sleeves. - -Scene flats, six deep, were propped against the wall. He had to pick -his way between piled-up properties and furniture. Two stage hands moved -aside and let him by. He was conscious of feeling weak. His head was a -maelstrom of whirling emotions. He was frightened. He couldn't get his -breath. It wouldn't do to stay around here--perhaps make a scene and -spoil his own play. He had no means of knowing for certain that Maria -had not escaped MacMerry and pursued him up the passage. What if she -should overpower the doorman--a superannuated actor--and get at him -again! Even if she shouldn't, he might faint, or die. It was curiously -hard to breathe. - -He felt his way past more scenery, more properties. There was a doorway -in the concrete stage wall, leading to dressing-rooms on a corridor, and -more dressing-rooms up a twisting iron stairway. - -Grace would have the star's room, of course. She wasn't a star yet, -but Neuerman was featuring her name in all the advertising. That would -naturally entitle her to the star's room. That would be the end room -with the outside light. The door was ajar. It was a large room. Yes, he -could see her first act frock, over a chair. And Minna, the maid who had -been with her when--when he and she had been on rather good terms, very -good terms--was sitting quietly by the dresser, sewing. Minna was a -discreet little person. She had carried notes and things. Still, it -was awkward. He would prefer not having Minna see him just now.... He -_was_ weak. - -He found it necessary to catch at the iron stair rail and steady -himself... Grace, you had to admit, was a good deal of a girl. It -was rather remarkable, considering her hard life, the work, the travel, -the--well, the one or two experiences--how fresh she looked, how young, -how full of magnetic charm. Why, Grace was twenty-eight if she was a -day! But she was putting the play over in great style. You had to admire -her for that. It was too bad, thinking it all ever, that their relations -hadn't gone quietly along on a friendly basis, that emotions should have -torn her so, intensifying her demands on him, making it really necessary -for him to break off with her. - -He plunged into the dressing-room. - - - - -CHAPTER XL--HIS UNCONQUERABLE SOUL - -|THE maid, Minna, sprang up, dropping her sewing and giving a throaty -little shriek. Peter, steadying himself with an effort, softly closed -the doer, leaned back against it, and frowned. - -"Good God!" he said, "don't scream like that! They'll hear you clear to -Fiftieth Street." - -The girl had staggered back against the wall, was supporting herself -there with outspread hands. - -"Mr. Mann--you frightened me! And--and--" Her eyes wandered from his -white face to his shirt-front. That had been white. It was now spotted -red with blood. - -He stared down at it, fascinated. - -"Please, Mr. Mann, will you lie down?" - -She hurried to clear a heap of garments off the sofa: then she took his -arm and steadied him as he walked across the room. - -"You won't let me call a doctor, Mr. Mann?" - -"Oh, no! Don't call anybody! Keep your head shut." - -"But--but--" - -"Here, help me with these studs." - -"You'd better take your coat off first, sir." - -She helped him get it off; unbuttoned his waistcoat; untied his white -bow. He had to unbutton the collar himself, holding all the while to his -folded envelope. - -"It's astonishing how weak I am--" - -"Oh, Mr. Mann, you're bleeding to death!" The girl began weeping. - -"I'm not bleeding to death! That's nonsense! Don't you talk like that to -me--keep your head shut! It's nothing at all. I'll be all right. Just a -few minutes." - -"Oh, Mr. Mann--" - -Peter glanced nervously toward the door. "Shut up!" he whispered -huskily. - -She got the studs out of his shirt, and opened it. Beneath, his singlet -was dripping red. She drew in a spasmodic long breath, with a whistling -sound. - -"Now, for God's sake, don't you go and faint!" said he. "I tell you it's -nothing--nothing at all." - -She was crying now. - -"Quit your blubbering! Quit it!... Here!"--he reached painfully into -his pocket, produced a bank note--"run over to the drug store--there's -one just across, on the corner--and get some things--bandages, cotton, -something to wash it off with. And hurry! I've got to be out of here in -ten minutes." - -"You won't let me call a doctor, Mr. Mann?" - -"Call nothing! You do as I tell you. Understand!" - -She took the money and slipped out, carefully closing the door after -her. - -Peter, flat on the sofa, peered about him. He wished the room were less -brightly lighted. And it was disagreeably full of flowers. The air was -heavy with the scent of them--like a funeral. Doubtless it would have -been the decent thing for him to have sent Grace a few roses. If only -for old times' sake. The window shade was swaying in the soft September -breeze--what if Marla should be out there in the alley, peeping in? -The sweat burst out on his forehead. _Had_ they held her? God--if they -hadn't. - -His gaze drooped to the painful spectacle of his own person. He was a -sight. There was blood all over his hands now, and on his clothes. The -paper he gripped was stained with it. It had got on the sofa. It was -on the floor. The door-knob, the door itself, the wall beside it, were -marked with it. - -What if Grace should come in! What could he say? Could he say anything? -His mind darted about this way and that, like a rat in a trap. This was -awful! Where was that girl? Why, in Heaven's name, didn't she come hack? -It seemed to him that hours were passing. He observed that the -blood came faster when he moved, and he lay very still.... -Hours--hours--hours! - -There were sounds outside. Some one ran up the iron stairs. Then some -one else. People were speaking. The act--the play--was over. - -He raised himself on his elbow. There was another step in the corridor, -a step he knew. He let himself slowly down. - -The door swung open. Grace, tired, a far-away look in her eyes, was -coming slowly in. Then she fairly sprang in--and closed the door -sharply. She was across the room before he could collect his thoughts -and on her knees, her arms about him. - -"Peter!" - -"Look out, Grace. You'll get all covered with this stuff." - -Her eyes, wide, horror-struck, were fastened on his. "Peter--how awful! -What is it? What has happened?" - -Her solicitude was unexpectedly soothing. His self-respect came creeping -back, a thought shamefaced. He even smiled faintly. - -"I don't know, Grace, dear. Something happened--out in the street. A -fight, I think. I was walking by. Then I was stabbed." - -"Oh--oh!" she moaned, "some dreadful mistake!" - -"Isn't it silly!" - -"I'll have Neuerman get Doctor Brimmer." - -"No--please--" - -But she rushed out. In a moment she was back, with an armful of parcels. -"Poor Minna--" - -"I sent her to the drug store." - -"Yes. She fainted. She was bringing these things. They've carried her -into Miss Dunson's room." - -She opened the parcels. - -He watched her. He had forgotten that she was so pretty, that she had so -much personality even off-stage. The turbulence in his heart seemed all -at once to be dying down. A little glow was setting up there now. The -little glow was growing. There was, after all, a great deal between him -and Grace. He had treated her shabbily, o: course. He hadn't known how -to avoid that, She was a dear to be so sweet about it.... The way she -had rushed to him, the feel of her firm smooth hand on his cheek, -the fact that she had, right now, in the very moment of her triumph, -forgotten herself utterly--that was rather wonderful. A fine girl, -Grace! - -She came to him again; opened his singlet and examined the wounds. - -"I don't think they're very deep," said she. "What a strange -experience." - -"They're nothing," said he. - -"Perhaps I'd better not do anything until the doctor comes." - -"Of course not," said he. - -She was bending close over him. A loose strand of her fine hair brushed -his cheek. A new fever was at work within him. He kissed her hair. She -heard the sound but said nothing; she was washing away the blood with -the antiseptic solution Minna had got. He caught one glimpse of her -eyes; they were wet with tears. - -Suddenly he knew that the sonnet, on the envelope, blood-soaked, was -burning in his hand. He raised it. - -"Careful, dear!" she murmured. "Don't move." - -"We've quarreled, Grace--" - -"Yes, I know." - -"I haven't been--decent, even--" - -She was silent. - -"But when I saw you to-night--" He unfolded the envelope. "I wrote this -to-night. Up in the gallery..." - -Slowly, in a low voice that trembled with passion, he read it to her. -And he saw the tears crowd out and slowly fall. He had his effect. - -"Grace, dear--" - -"Yes, Peter." - -"I'm tired of being alone--tired." - -"I know..." - -"Why shouldn't we try the real thing--go all the way--" - -"You mean--marriage. Peter?" - -"I mean marriage, Grace." - -Very tired, very thoughtful, still in the costume and make-up of the -part, kneeling there beside him, she considered this. Finally she lifted -her eyes to his. "I'm willing, Peter," she said. "I won't try to deceive -myself. It is what I have wanted." - -The doctor came then; bandaged him, and advised quiet for a few days, -preferably in a hospital. When he had gone, she cried with a half smile: -"You're not going to his old hospital, Peter. You're coming home with -me." - -He lay there in a beatific dream while she changed to her street -clothes. - -They were ready to go. She had ordered an ambulance, and they were -waiting. There was a knock. - -"Come in," she called. - -The door opened. First to appear was a breezy young man who could not -possibly have been other than a press-agent--a very happy press-agent. -Next came a policeman; a mounted policeman, evidently, from his natty -white cap and his puttees. Following were half a dozen newspaper men. - -"Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Mann," said the press-agent, "but they're -holding the woman, and the officer wants to know if you're going to -prefer charges." - -"I'm not going to prefer charges against anybody," said Peter with quiet -dignity. And then added: "What woman?" - -The policeman looked straight at him. "The young woman that stabbed -you," he said. - -Peter made a weak gesture. His dignity was impenetrable. - -"I really don't know yet what it was," he said. "It happened so -quickly." - -The press-agent gave the officer a triumphant look, as if to say: -"There, you see!" - -"Do you think you could identify her?" This from the officer. - -"No," said Peter. "I'm afraid I couldn't. My thoughts were anywhere but -there." - -They went away then. The reporters hung eagerly on the sill, but the -press-agent hustled them out. - -Grace, subdued, thinking hard, took her hat from the wall rack. A -woman had stabbed him. Grace knew, none better, that her Peter was an -extremely subtle and plausible young man. - -But she had wanted him. She had got him. And she let it go at that. In -the ambulance, all the way to her rooms, her arm was under his head, her -smile was instant when his roving gaze sought her face. It seemed to her -that he was grateful, that he wanted her there. This was something. And -the poor boy was suffering! - -Once he spoke. He was very weak. And there was noise in the street. She -had to bend close to hear him. - -"What is it, dear?" - -"That press-agent--I should have talked with him--something very -important...." - -Sue and her new husband rode down to Washington Square on the bus, and -wandered over into Greenwich Village. It was midnight. There were few -signs of life along the twisted streets and about the little triangular -parks. But Jim's was open. - -They had Welsh rabbits and coffee. The Worm lighted his caked old brier -pipe. - -"Been thinking over Pete's speech, Susan," said he. - -"Of course. So have I." - -"As I recall it, the gist of it"--the Worm's lean face bore the -quizzically thoughtful expression that she loved to see there; she -watched it now--"Pete uses the word 'truffler' to mean a young woman who -turns from duty to the pursuit of enjoyment. Those were pretty nearly -his words, weren't they?" - -"Almost exactly." - -[Illustration: 0008] - -"The Truffler, according to Pete, builds no home, rears no young, -produces nothing. She goes in for self-expression instead of -self-abnegation. She is out for herself, hunting the truffles, the -delicate bits, playing with love and with life. That's about it?" - -"Just about, Henry." - -"Well, in applying it only to women, Pete was arbitrary. For he was not -defining a feminine quality--he was defining a human quality, surely -more commonly found among members of his own sex. - -"No"--he clamped his lips around his pipe stem, puffed and grinned--"no, -Pete has done a funny thing, a very funny thing. The exasperating part -of it is that he will never know. Do you get me?" - -"Not exactly." - -"Why--Pete's the original George W. Dogberry. He has described himself. -That little analysis is a picture of his own life these past years. -Could anything illustrate it more perfectly than the way he stole that -play to-night? Self-interest? Self-expression? That's Pete. Hunting -the delicate bits?" He checked himself; he had not told Sue about Maria -Tonifetti. He didn't propose to tell her. "When has _he_ built a home? -When has _he_ reared any young? When has _he_ failed to assert his -Nictzschean ego? When has _he_ failed to yield to the Freudian wish? -Who, I wonder, has free-loved more widely. Why, not Hy Lowe himself. -And poor Hy is a chastened soul now. Betty's got him smothered, going to -marry him after the divorce--if he has a job then. Waters Coryell -told me.... No"--he removed his pipe and blew a meditative ring of -smoke--"no, dear little girl, whatever the pestiferous Pete may think, -or think he thinks, you are not the Truffler. Not you! No, the Truffler -is Peter Ericson Mann." - -They wandered heme at one o'clock--home to the dingy little apartment on -Tenth Street that had been her rooms and later his rooms. It was their -rooms now. And the old quarters were not dingy, or bare or wanting -in outlook, to the two young persons who let themselves in and stood -silently, breathlessly there, she pressing close to his side; they were -a gulden palace, brushed by wings of light. - -"Henry," she whispered, her arms about his neck, her wet face on his -breast, her heart beating tumultuously against his--"Henry, I want us to -build a home, to--to produce..." - -With awe and a prayer in his heart, he kissed her. - - -THE END - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Trufflers, by Samuel Merwin - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRUFFLERS *** - -***** This file should be named 51985-8.txt or 51985-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/9/8/51985/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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