“It's a partnership for him--a good offer--responsible people. See here, Sue, you must be made to grasp this. We're going straight on. Got to! The problem is to make Peter understand--the shape he's in, frightened to death... he won't listen to me.... It's up to you, Sue. It's a job to be handled. I'm trying to tell you. One way or another, it's got to be broken to him tonight. We've got precious little time to give him for his nervous upset before he comes around.” Sue looked at him. Her hands were folded in her lap.. “Well--?” said he. “Jacob, you shouldn't have come to me.” “You won't even call him?” “No.” “May I?” “Of course.” He got up, moved toward the telephone, hesitated midway, changed his mind and picked up his hat. Holding it between his hands he stood over her. She waited. But instead of speaking, he went out. She sat there a brief time, thinking; went over to the telephone herself; even fingered the receiver; gave it up; busied herself hunting a receptacle for Peter's roses, finally settling on an earthenware crock. CHAPTER XX--PETER GETS A NOTE |THE Worm walked slowly and thoughtfully across to Washington Square and the old brick apartment building. Peter was there--a gloomy intense figure, bent over the desk at the farther end of the nearly dark studio, his long face, the three little pasteboard bank books before him, the pad on which he was figuring and his thin hands illuminated in the yellow circle from the drop light on the desk. Just behind him on the small table was his typewriter, and there were sheets of paper scattered on the floor. He lifted his face, peered at the Worm through his large glasses, then with nervous quickness threw the bank books into a drawer which he locked. He tore up the top sheet of the pad; noted pencil indentations on the sheet next under it, and tore that up too. “Hello!” he remarked listlessly. “Hello!” replied the Worm. Adding with a touch of self-consciousness: “Just had a cup of tea with Sue.” “Over at her place?” The Worm nodded. “Any--any one else there?” “Zanin came in.” Peter winced and whitened a little about the mouth; then suddenly got up and with an exaggerated air of casualness set about picking up the papers on the floor. This done he strode to the window and stared out over the Square where hundreds of electric lights twinkled. Suddenly he swung around. “It's a strain,” he said in a suppressed, clouded voice. “Doubtless,” murmured the Worm, reaching for the evening paper. “Zanin used to try to--to make love to her.” Some effort must be made to stem this mounting current. “Oh, well,” said the Worm, rather hurriedly, “you're free from worry, Pete.” “God--if I were!” muttered the eminent modernist. “But you are! Good lord, man, here I've just asked her to have dinner with me, and she ducked. Wouldn't even eat with me.” “But--” “But nothing! It was flatly because she is engaged to you.”