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!”