looking at Peter, rather
eagerly, smiling. The eminent playwright gazed steadily off across the
house.

“He looks all in,” observed the Worm.

“Poor Peter”--this from Sue--“these first nights are a frightful
strain.”

“Pete!” the Worm called softly.

He had to see them now. He came across the aisle, shook hands, peered
gloomily, self-consciously down at them.

“Hiding?” asked Sue, all smiles.

Peter's gloom deepened. “Oh, no,” he replied.

“Evidently you're not figuring on taking the author's call,” said the
Worm, surveying Peter's business suit.

The playwright raised his hand, moved it lightly as if tossing away an
inconsiderable thing.

“Why should I? I'm not interested. It's not my play.”

The Worm was smiling. What was the matter with them--grinning like
monkeys! Couldn't they at least show a decent respect for his feelings?

“There is a rather wide-spread notion to the contrary,” said the Worm.

“Oh, yes”--again that gesture from Peter---“my name is on it. But it is
not my play.”

“Whose is it then?”

Peter shrugged. “How should I know? Haven't been near them for five
months. They were all rewriting it then. They never grasped it.
Neuerman, to this day, I'm sure, has no idea what it is about. Can't say
I'm eager to view the remains.”

The orchestra struck up. Peter dropped back into his seat. He raised his
program again, and again watched Sue from behind it. He had managed to
keep up a calm front, but at considerable cost to his already racked
nervous system. Sue's smile, her fresh olive skin, her extraordinary
green eyes, the subtly pleasing poise of her head on her perfect neck,
touched again a certain group of associated emotions that had slumbered
of late. Surely she had not forgotten---the few disturbed, thrilling
days of their engagement--their first kiss, that had so surprised them
both, up in his rooms....

She couldn't have forgotten! Perhaps his mutilated message _might_ touch
and stir her. Perhaps again....

Suddenly Peter's program fluttered to