“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Mann,” said the press-agent, “but they're holding the woman, and the officer wants to know if you're going to prefer charges.” “I'm not going to prefer charges against anybody,” said Peter with quiet dignity. And then added: “What woman?” The policeman looked straight at him. “The young woman that stabbed you,” he said. Peter made a weak gesture. His dignity was impenetrable. “I really don't know yet what it was,” he said. “It happened so quickly.” The press-agent gave the officer a triumphant look, as if to say: “There, you see!” “Do you think you could identify her?” This from the officer. “No,” said Peter. “I'm afraid I couldn't. My thoughts were anywhere but there.” They went away then. The reporters hung eagerly on the sill, but the press-agent hustled them out. Grace, subdued, thinking hard, took her hat from the wall rack. A woman had stabbed him. Grace knew, none better, that her Peter was an extremely subtle and plausible young man. But she had wanted him. She had got him. And she let it go at that. In the ambulance, all the way to her rooms, her arm was under his head, her smile was instant when his roving gaze sought her face. It seemed to her that he was grateful, that he wanted her there. This was something. And the poor boy was suffering! Once he spoke. He was very weak. And there was noise in the street. She had to bend close to hear him. “What is it, dear?” “That press-agent--I should have talked with him--something very important....” Sue and her new husband rode down to Washington Square on the bus, and wandered over into Greenwich Village. It was midnight. There were few signs of life along the twisted streets and about the little triangular parks. But Jim's was open. They had Welsh rabbits and coffee. The Worm lighted his caked old brier pipe. “Been thinking over Pete's speech, Susan,” said he. “Of course. So have I.” “As I recall it, the gist of it”--the Worm's lean face bore the quizzically thoughtful expression that she loved to see there; she watched it now--“Pete uses the word 'truffler' to mean a young woman who turns from duty to the pursuit of enjoyment. Those were pretty nearly his words, weren't they?” “Almost exactly.” [Illustration: 0008] “The Truffler, according to Pete, builds no home, rears no young, produces nothing. She goes in for self-expression instead of self-abnegation. She is out for herself, hunting the truffles, the delicate bits, playing with love and with life. That's about it?” “Just about, Henry.” “Well, in applying it only to women, Pete was arbitrary. For he was not defining a feminine quality--he was defining a human quality, surely more commonly found among members of his own sex. “No”--he clamped his lips around his pipe stem, puffed and grinned--“no, Pete has done a funny thing, a very funny thing. The exasperating part of it is that he will never know. Do you get me?” “Not exactly.”