“My son,” replied Hy, “I am not discussing persons. I am enunciating a principle. What may have passed between friend Betty and me has nothing to do with it.” He glanced at his watch. “Though I'll admit she is expecting me around this evening. She doesn't hate me, Pete.... Funny thing about Betty--she was telling me--there's a man up in her town pestering her to death. Letters and telegrams. Wants to marry her. He makes gas engines. Queer about these small-town fellows--they can't understand a free-spirited woman. Imagine Betty cooped up like that!” “I'm not likely to be kissing Sue,” growled Peter. “My son, you've as good as done it already. From your own admission. Asked her to marry you. Right off, too--just like that! Can't you see it's the same thing in principle--shock and reaction! She'd have preferred the kiss of course--” “You don't know that?” “The trouble with you, Pete, is that you don't understand women. According to your own story again, you startled her so that she left you on a country road and walked ten miles alone rather than answer you. I tell you, get a woman real angry at you just once, and she can't be indifferent to you as long as she lives. Hate you--yes. Love you--yes. Indifferent--no.... You've started something. Give her time.” “Time!” snorted Peter. “Time!” He paced the long room; kicked the closet door shut; gave the piano keys a savage bang. Hy watched Peter with growing concern. His eyes roved about the smoke-dimmed, high-ceiled studio. They had lived well here--himself, Peter and the Worm. Thanks to some unknown law of personality, they had got on, this odd trio, through the years. Girls and women had drifted into and out of their individual lives (for your New York bachelor does not inhabit a vacuum)--but never before had the specter of marriage stalked with disruptive import through these dingy rooms. “Look here, Pete,” he said, “why be so dam' serious about it!” Peter paused in his pacing and stared at Hy.... “Serious!” He repeated the word under his breath. His long face worked convulsively behind the large horn-rimmed glasses (not spectacles) and their black ribbon. Then abruptly he rushed into the bedroom and slammed the door behind him. Hy sighed, glanced out at the weather (it was April), picked up hat, stick and gloves and sauntered forth to dine comfortably at his club as a ritualistic preliminary to a pleasant evening. That, he thought now, was the great thing about bachelor life in town. You had all the advantages of feminine companionship--in assorted varieties--and then when you preferred or if the ladies bored you you just went to the club. Peter sat on the edge of the bed, all nerves, and thought about Sue Wilde. Also about six little bank books.