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.