He walked the streets, a solitary, rather elegant figure, conspicuously a New Yorker, swinging his stick savagely and occasionally muttering to himself. He roved out to the open country. Maple buds were sprouting. New grass was pushing upward into the soft air. The robins were singing. But there were neither buds nor robins in Peter's heart. He decided to be friendly with Grace, but reserved. It was nearly six when he entered the barnlike office of the hotel, his eyes on the floor, full of himself. Then he saw her, registering at the desk. He had stopped short. He could not very well turn and go out. She might see him.. And he was not afraid. She did see him. He raised his hat, Their hands met--he extremely dignified, she smiling a very little. “Well, Peter!” “You're looking well, Grace.” “Am I?” They moved, tacitly, into the adjoining parlor and stood by the window. “I thought--” he began. “What did you think, Peter?” Then, before he could reply, she went on to say: “I've been working through the Middle West. Closed in Cincinnati last week.” “Had a hard season?” “Hard--yes.” She glanced down at a large envelope held under her arm. “Mr. Neuerman sent your play. I've just read it--on the train.” “Oh, you've read it?” “Yes.” Again that hint of a smile. Peter's eyes wandered about the room. “It's funny,” she murmured. “What's funny?” said he severely. “I was thinking of this play.” She took it out of the envelope and rapidly turned the typewritten pages. “So bachelor women are--what you call 'trufflers,' Peter!” “It is quite impersonal, Grace.” “Oh, of course--a work of art--” Not clear what that twisted little smile of hers meant, he kept silent. “Oh, Peter!” she said then, and left him. Everything considered, he felt that he had handled it rather well. This was Tuesday. It was arranged that Miss Derring should make her first appearance Thursday night. Meantime, she was to get up her part and watch the play closely with the idea of possible suggestions. Peter kept austerely aloof, working day and night on the revision of Acts I and III. Neuerman and Miss Derring consulted together a good deal. On Thursday, Peter caught them at the luncheon table, deep in a heap of scribbled sheets of paper that appeared to be in Grace's large hand. They urged him to join them, but he shook his head. He did agree, however, to sit through the rehearsal, later in the afternoon. Thus it was that he found himself seated next to Grace in one of the rear rows of a dim empty theater, all but lost in the shadows under the balcony. Neuerman left them, and hurried down to the stage to pull his jaded company together. It seemed to Peter that they were very close, he and Grace, there in the shadow. He could feel her sleeve against his arm. He wished Neuerman would come back. Unexpectedly to himself, Peter started nervously. His hat slipped from his knees. He caught it. His hand brushed Grace's skirt, then her hand. Slowly their fingers interlocked.