“Oh,” he said, “hello! What's that? Yes, I'm leaving to-morrow afternoon. Neuerman is going to put _The Truffler_ on the road for a few; weeks this spring to try out the cast.” The Worm regarded him thoughtfully. “Look here, Pete,” said he, “it isn't my fault that God gave me ears. I heard your little love scene.” Peter looked blankly at him; then his face twisted convulsively and he buried his face in his hands. “Oh, Henry!” he groaned. “It's awful. I'm in love, man!” His voice was really trembling. “It's got me at last--the real thing. I must tell somebody--it's racking me to pieces--I can't work, can't sleep. It's Sue Wilde. I've asked her to marry me--she can't make up her mind. And now; I've got to go away for weeks and leave things... Za-Zanin...” He sat up, stiffened his shoulders, bit his lip. The Worm feared he was going to cry. But instead he sprang up, rushed from the room and, a moment later, from the apartment. The Worm sat on a corner of the desk and looked after him, thought about him, let his feelings rise a little.... Peter, even in his anger and confusion, had managed to look unruffled, well-groomed. He always did. No conceivable outburst of emotion could have made him forget to place his coat on the hanger and crease his trousers carefully in the frame. His various suits were well made. They fitted him. They represented thought and money. His shoes--eight or nine pairs in all--were custom made and looked it. His scarfs were of imported silk. His collars came from England and cost forty cents each. His walking sticks had distinction.... And Peter was successful with women. No doubt about that. The Worm gazed down at himself. The old gray suit was; a shapeless thing. The coat pockets bulged--note-book and wad of loose notes on one side, a paper-bound volume in the Russian tongue on the other. He had just one other suit. It hung from a hook in the closet, and he knew that it, too, was shapeless. A clock, somewhere outside, struck seven. He started; stuffed his note-book and papers into a drawer; drew the volume in Russian from his other pocket, made as if to lay it on the table, then hesitated. It was his custom to have some reading always by him. Sue might be late. She often was. Suddenly he raised the book above his head and threw it against the wall at the other end of the room. Then he picked up his old soft hat (he never wore an overcoat) and rushed out. The Muscovy is a basement restaurant near Washington Square. You get into it from the street by stumbling down a dark twisting flight of uneven steps and opening a door under a high stoop. Art dines here and Anarchism; Ideas sit cheek by jowl with the Senses.