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.