|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.