And Sue waited, by the door. Peter took up the receiver. She heard him stammer-- “Oh--oh, all right--eleven o'clock--all right.” “There,” said she, laughing a little. “It has happened, you see! I'm being put out.” “I'm awfully sorry, Sue.” “Oh, that doesn't matter! It's just amusing.” “But I wouldn't have had it happen----” His voice trailed off. “Good night,” said she again. “Good night, Sue. You are treating me better than I deserve.” “We won't talk any more about it. Good night.” She tried to turn the catch on the lock. He reached out to help. His hand closed over hers. He turned; his eyes met hers; he took her in his arms again. They moved slowly back toward the fire. “Peter--please!” she murmured. “It won't do.” “Oh, Sue--Sue!” he groaned. “If we feel this way, why not marry and make a good job of it?” Peter said this as she might have said it--all directness, matter-of-fact. “I wouldn't stop you, Sue. I wouldn't ever dominate you or take you for granted. I'd live for you, Sue.” “I know.” She caught her breath and moved away from him. “You wouldn't stop me, but marriage and life would. No, Peter; not now. Marriage isn't on my calendar.... And, Peter, please don't make love to me. I don't want you to.” Peter moved away, too, at this. “Look here, Sue,” he said, after a moment's thought, rather roughly, “you go. We won't shake hands again. Just go. Right now. I promise I won't bother you. And we--we'll put the play through--put it through right.” Her eyes were on his again, with a light in them. A slow smile was coming to the corners of her mouth. “Oh, Peter,” she said very gently, “don't you--when you say that--you make me--” “Please--please go!” cried Peter. The telephone rang. “I'll think over the matter of the trip south,” said she, “and--” “Sue, I want you to go!” “--and let you know”. I'm not sure but what you're right. If we _can_ do it up here....” “Good God, Sue! Please! Please!” She moved slowly toward the door, turned the catch herself, then glanced hesitatingly back. Peter was standing rigidly before the fire, staring into it. He had picked up the poker and was holding it stiffly in his right hand. She did not know that the man standing there was not Peter at all, but a very famous personage, shorter than Peter, and stouter, whose name had rung resoundingly down the slope of a hundred years. He would not turn. So she went out. CHAPTER XIII--TWO GIRLS OF THE VILLAGE |IT is not a simple matter to record in any detail the violent emotional reaction through which Peter now passed. Peter had the gift of creative imagination, the egotism to drive it far, and, for background, the character of a theatrical chameleon. Of these qualities, I have always believed that the egotism predominated. He could appear dignified, even distinguished; he could also appear excitable, ungoverned. Either would be Peter.