ne to the other. “Well,” said
he--“what do you want?”

Hy looked at Betty; Betty looked at Hy. She  very prettily; he
leaned against the wall and laughed softly there until his eyes filled,
laughed himself weak. Finally he managed to observe to the irate figure
on the sill, who held his pipe in a threatening attitude and awaited an
explanation--“My son, are you aware that the lady lives here? Also that
you could hardly be termed overdressed.” She spoke now, softly, with
hesitation--

“Where is Sue, Mr. Bates?”

He waved his pipe. “Gone--New Jersey.”

Betty seemed to recollect. “Oh, yes,” she murmured. “And wasn't there
something--the other day, when was it--”

She exchanged a helplessly emotional glance with the partly sobered Hy.

“--Saturday it must have been. Oh, of course, you wanted me to pack
Sue's things.”

“They're packed,” snapped the Worm. “And gone.”

“And what, pray, are you doing here?” This from Hy.

“Living here,” said the Worm.

Again the two sought each other's eyes.

“Well, really--” Hy began.

Betty rested her hand on his arm. “Perhaps, Mr. Bates--you see, some of
my things are here--some things I need--”

Suddenly the Worm remembered. He blushed; then seemed to grow more
angry.

“You'd better come in and get them,” said he.

“Well--if I might--”

They came in. Betty repacked her bog in the bedroom. Once she called to
Hy; they whispered; then he brought her his bag.

Next Hy stood by the window and softly whistled a new rag. Meanwhile the
Worm with a touch of self-consciousness, slipped on his coat. He had no
bathrobe.

Hy, still whistling, looked at the litter of closely written sheets on
the table.

“What's this,” said he--“writing your novel?”

“I was,” growled the Worm. He stared at the manuscript; then at Hy; then
at the busy, beautiful, embarrassed young woman in the bedroom.

Suddenly and savagely, he gathered up the papers, tore them down and
across, handful by handful and stuffed them into the fireplace.

Hy lo