“Yes, and a crowd of us went. That one wasn't so bad as the others. You know your tricks well enough--especially in comedy, carpentered comedy. Theatrically, I suppose you're really pretty good or your things wouldn't succeed. It is when you try to deal with life--and with women--that you're....” Words failed her. She smoked in silence. “I'm what?” he ventured. “The limit?” “Yes,” she replied, very thoughtful. “Since you've said it.” “All right,” he cried, aiming at a gay humor and missing heavily--“but now, having slapped me in the face and thrown me out in the snow, don't you think that you'd better--” He hesitated, watching for a smile that failed to make its appearance. “That I'd better what?” “Well--tell me a little more?” “I was wondering if I could. The difficulty is, it's the whole thing--your attitude toward life--the perfectly conventional, perfectly unimaginative home and mother stuff, your hopeless sentimentality about women, the slushy, horrible, immoral Broadway falseness that lies back of everything you do--the Broadway thing, always. Ever, in your comedy, good as that sometimes is. Your insight into life is just about that of a hardened director of one-reel films. What I've been wondering since we met this afternoon--you see, I didn't know that we were going to meet in this way... “Naturally.” “... is whether it would be any use to try and help you. You have ability enough.” “Thanks for that!” “Don't let's trifle! You see, if it is any use at all to try to get a little--just a little--truth into the American theater, why, those of us that believe in truth owe it to our faith to get to work on the men that supply the plays.” “Doubtless.” Peter's mind was racing in a dozen directions at once. This extraordinary young person had hit close; that much he knew. He wondered rather helplessly whether the shattered and scattered remnants of his self-esteem could ever be put together again so the cracks wouldn't show. The confusing thing was that he couldn't, at the moment, feel angry toward the girl; she was too odd and too pretty. Already he was conscious of a considerable emotional stir, caused by her mere presence there across the table. She reached out now for another cigarette. “I think,” said he gloomily, “that you'd better tell me your name.” She shook her head. “I'll tell you how you can find me out.” “How?” “You would have to take a little trouble.” “Glad to.” “Come to the Crossroads Theater to-night, in Tenth Street.” “Oh---that little place of Zanin's.” She nodded. “That little place of Zanin's.” “I've never been there.” “I know you haven't. None of the people that might be helped by it ever come. You see, we aren't professional, artificialized actors. We are just trying to deal naturally with bits of real life--from the Russian, and things that are written here in the Village. Jacob Zanin is a big man--a fine natural man--with a touch of genius, I think.”