|THE Worm met Sue Wilde one afternoon as she stepped down from a Seventh Avenue car--carried it off with a quite successful air of easy surprise. He couldn't see that it harmed Peter or anybody, for him to meet her now and then. If it gave him pleasure just to see her walk--even in a middy blouse, old skirt and sneakers, she was graceful as a Grecian youth!--to speak and then listen to her voice as she answered, to glimpse her profile and sense the tint of health on her olive skin, whose business was it! So long as he was asking nothing! Besides, Sue didn't dream. He didn't intend that she should dream. He had lied to her with shy delight regarding his set habit of walking every afternoon. He hated walks--hated all forms of exercise. He knew pretty accurately when she would be through her day's work at the plant of the Interstellar Film Company, over in Jersey, because they were doing outside locations now, and outdoor work, even in April, needs light. He knew precisely what trains she could catch; had, right now, a local time table in a convenient pocket. Sue was an outdoor girl and would prefer ferry to tube. From the ferry it was car or sidewalk; either way she couldn't escape him unless she headed elsewhere than toward her dingy little apartment. To-day he walked home with her. She suggested tea. He let his eyes dwell on her an instant--she on the top step, he just below--and in that instant he forgot Peter. “All right,” said he, a pleasant glow in his breast, “if you'll have dinner with me. They have a fresh lot of those deep-sea oysters at Jim's.” Then he caught her hesitation and recalled Peter. For a moment they stood in silence, then: “Don't let's trade,” she said. “Come in for tea anyway.” He followed her in, reflecting. Peter or no Peter, it disturbed him to sec this restraint in Sue Wilde. He felt that it disturbed her a little, too. It was possible, of course, that this was one of the evenings when Peter expected to appropriate her. The Worm was the least obtrusive of men, but he could be stubborn. Then and there he asked if this was Peter's evening. She was stooping to unlock the apartment door. “No,” she replied rather shortly, “he's working tonight.” They had hardly got into the apartment before the bell rang, and Sue went out to answer it. The Worm, sandy of hair, mild of feature, dropped into the willow armchair, rested elbows on knees, surveyed the half-furnished living-room and smiled.