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.