“So I've been told,” remarked Peter dryly. “Go on with it.” “Well, Sue's got it into her head that you don't get the idea of intelligent radicalism. That you're... “That I'm a reactionary.” “Yes--that you're a reactionary. She's worried about the scenario--afraid you'll miss the very point of it.” Again he spread out his large strong hands. “So don't you see why I'm eager to get hold of it and read it to her”--he hesitated again, and knit his brows--“so I can reassure her... You see, Mann, Sue just doesn't like you. That's the plain fact. You've hit her all wrong.” He raised a hand to ward off Peter's interruption. “Oh, we'll straighten that out all right! But it'll take delicate handling--just now, while we're working out the scenario and planning the trip south--and so, meantime...” “You would like me to keep out of Sue's way as much as possible.” “And leave everything to me, Mann. As it stands now, here she is, keen, all ready, once she's solid in her mind about the right spirit of the scenario, to start south with me...” Peter waved the poker in a series of small circles and figure eights; then held it motionless and sighted along it with squinted-up eyes. “Why go south?” he asked. Zanin gave a start and stared at him; then controlled himself, for the expenses of that little trip, two-thirds of them, at least, must be paid out of the funds entered in Peter's six little bank books. “Why go south?” Zanin repeated, gropingly; then came back at Peter with a rush of words. “Good lord, Mann, don't you see that we're putting over a big piece of symbolism--the most delicate and difficult job on earth. This isn't _Shore Acres!_ It isn't the _Doll's House!_ It's a realized dream, and it's got to be put across with such quality and power that it will fire a new dream in the public mind. I propose to spring right out at 'em, startle 'em--yes, shock 'em; and all the time keep it where they can't lay their vulgar hands on it. We can't show our Nature effects--primitive, half-nude people--against a background of a New Jersey farm land with a chestnut tree and a couple of oaks in the middle distance!” “Pretty fine trees, those!” observed Peter. “Not for a minute!” Zanin sprang to his feet; his voice rang. “Got to be remote, exotic--dream quality, fantasy all through. Florida or California--palm trees and such. Damn it, the thing's a poem! It's got to be done as a poem.” He strode down the room and back. Peter got up, very calm, rather white about the mouth and watched him.... Dream quality? His thoughts were woven through and through with it at this moment. A voice at his inner ear, a voice curiously like Hy's, was murmuring over and over: “Sure! Kiss her.”