Peter was silent. He knew this brilliant, hulking Russian Jew, and disliked him: even feared him in a way, as he feared others of his race with what he felt to be their hard clear minds, their vehement idealism, their insistent pushing upward. The play that had triumphantly displaced his last failure at the Astoria Theater was written by a Russian Jew. She added: “In some ways it is the only interesting theater in New York.” “There is so much to see.” “I know,” she sighed. “And we don't play every night, of course. Only Friday and Saturday.” He was regarding her now with kindling interest. “What do you do there?” “Oh, nothing much. I'm playing a boy this month in Zanin's one-act piece, _Any Street_. And sometimes I dance. I was on my way there when I met you--was due at three o'clock.” “For a rehearsal, I suppose.” She nodded. “You won't make it. It's four-fifteen now.” “I know it.” “You're playing a boy,” he mused. “I wonder if that is why you cut off your hair.” He felt brutally daring in saying this. He had never been direct with women or with direct women. But this girl created her own atmosphere which quite enveloped him. “Yes,” said she simply, “I had to for the part.” Never would he have believed that the attractive woman lived who would do that! Abruptly, as if acting on an impulse, she pushed back her chair. “I'm going,” she remarked; adding; “You'll find you have friends who know me.” She was getting into her coat now. He hurried awkwardly around the table, and helped her. “Tell me,” said he, suddenly all questions, now that he was losing her--“You live here in the Village, I take it?” “Yes.” “Alone?” She nearly smiled. “No, with another girl.” “Do I know her?” She pursed her lips. “I doubt it.” A moment more of hesitation, then: “Her name is Deane, Betty Deane.” “I've heard that name. Yes, I've seen her--at the Black and White ball this winter! A blonde--pretty--went as a Picabia dancer.” They were mounting the steps to the sidewalk (for Jim's is a basement). “Good-by,” said she. “Will you come--to-night or to-morrow?” “Yes,” said he. “To-night.” And walked in a daze back to the rooms on Washington Square. CHAPTER II--THE SEVENTH-STORY MEN |NOT until he was crossing Sixth Avenue, under the elevated road, did it occur to him that she had deliberately broken her rehearsal appointment to have tea with him and then as deliberately, had left him for the rehearsal. He had interested her; then, all at once, he had ceased to interest her. It was not the first time Peter had had this experience with women, though none of the others had been so frank about it. Frank, she certainly was! Resentments rose. Why on earth had he sat there so meekly and let her go on like that--he, the more or less well-known Eric Mann! Had he no force of character at all? No dignity?