He paused at a news stand. Sprawled over it were specimens of the new sort of periodical, the moving-picture magazines. So the publishers, like the theatrical men, were being driven back by the invader. He bought the fattest, most brightly colored of these publications and turned the pages eagerly as he descended into the station. He stood half-hidden behind a pillar, his eyes wandering from the magazine to the ticket gate where Hy and the two girls would appear, then back to the magazine. Those pages reeked of enthusiasm, fresh ideas, prosperity. They stirred new depths within his soul. He saw his little party coming in through the gate. The two girls wore sweaters. Their skirts were short, their tan shoes low and flat of heel. They were attractive, each in her individual way; Sue less regular as to features, but brighter, slimmer, more alive. Betty's more luxurious figure was set off almost too well by the snug sweater. As she moved, swaying a little from the hips, her eyelids drooping rather languidly, the color stirring faintly under her fair fine skin, she was, Peter decided, unconscious neither of the sweater nor of the body within it.... Just before the train roared in, while Sue, all alertness, was looking out along the track, Peter saw Hy's hand brush Betty's. For an instant their fingers intertwined; then the hands drifted casually apart. CHAPTER VIII--SUE WALKS OVER A HILL |PETER joined them--a gloomy man, haunted by an anonymous letter. Sue was matter-of-fact. It seemed to Hy that she made some effort to put the well-known playwright more nearly at his ease. They lurched, an hour's ride out in Northern New Jersey, at a little motorists' tavern that Hy guided them to. They sat on a shaded veranda while the men smoked cigars and the girls smoked cigarettes. After which they set forth on what was designed to be a four-hour tramp through the hills to another railroad--Sue and Peter ahead (as it turned out); Hy and Betty lagging behind. The road curved over hills and down into miniature valleys. There were expanses of plowed fields, groves of tall bare trees, groups of farmhouses. Robins hopped beside the road. The bright sun mitigated the crisp sting in the air. A sense of early spring touched eye and ear and nostril. Peter felt it; breathed more deeply; actually smiled. Sue threw back her head and hummed softly. Hy and Betty dropped farther and farther behind. Once Sue turned and waved them on; then stood and laughed with sheer good humor at their deliberate, unrhythmical step. “Come on,” she said to Peter “They don't get it--the joy of it. You have to walk with a steady swing. It takes you a mile or two, at that, to get going. When I'm in my stride, it carries me along so I hate to stop at all. You know, you can't pick it up again right off--the real swing. Walking is a game--a fine game!”