Hy watched Peter with growing concern. His eyes roved about the smoke-dimmed, high-ceiled studio. They had lived well here – himself, Peter and the Worm. Thanks to some unknown law of personality, they had got on, this odd trio, through the years. Girls and women had drifted into and out of their individual lives (for your New York bachelor does not inhabit a vacuum) – but never before had the specter of marriage stalked with disruptive import through these dingy rooms.
“Look here, Pete,” he said, “why be so dam’ serious about it!”
Peter paused in his pacing and stared at Hy… “Serious!” He repeated the word under his breath. His long face worked convulsively behind the large horn-rimmed glasses (not spectacles) and their black ribbon. Then abruptly he rushed into the bedroom and slammed the door behind him.
Hy sighed, glanced out at the weather (it was April), picked up hat, stick and gloves and sauntered forth to dine comfortably at his club as a ritualistic preliminary to a pleasant evening. That, he thought now, was the great thing about bachelor life in town. You had all the advantages of feminine companionship – in assorted varieties – and then when you preferred or if the ladies bored you you just went to the club.
Peter sat on the edge of the bed, all nerves, and thought about Sue Wilde. Also about six little bank books.
They had been his secret inner life, the bank books locked away in the middle drawer of the desk on the side next the wall. Nearly seven thousand dollars were now entered in those books – Peter’s all. He was staking it on a single throw. He had rushed in where a shrewder theatrical angel might well have feared to tread. It was the wild outbreak of a cautious impractical man.
He thought it all over, sitting there on the edge of the bed. It was terrifying, but stirring. In his plays some one was always saving a girl through an act of personal sacrifice. Now he was acting it out in life. Indicating the truth to life of his plays… He was risking all. But so had Napoleon, returning from Elba, risked all (he did not pursue the analogy). So had Henry V at Agincourt. After all, considered in this light, it was rather fine. Certain persons would admire him if they knew. It was the way big men did things. He was glad that Sue didn’t know; it was finer to take the plunge without so much as asking a return. It was magnificent.
The word, popping into his thoughts, gave Peter a thrill. Yes, it was magnificent. He was doing a magnificent thing. All that remained was to carry it off magnificently.
He dragged his trunk from the closet. The lower tray and the bottom were packed with photographs and with letters tied in flat bundles – letters in various feminine hands. He stirred the bundles about. Some were old – years old; others less so.
Peter regarded them with the detachment of exaltation. They could not possibly mean anything to him; his life had begun the day he first saw Sue Wilde.
He carried them into the studio, great armsful, and piled them about the hearth. In the bottom drawer of the bureau were other packets of intimate documents. He brought those as well. Then he set to work to burn, packet by packet, that curiously remote past life of his. And he smiled a little at this memory and that.
Closely packed papers do not burn easily. He was seated there on the floor before the fireplace, stirring up sheets at which the flames had nibbled, when Jacob Zanin came in.
Zanin stared and laughed.
“Bad as that?” said he.
Peter met this sally with dignified silence. He urged his caller to sit down.
Zanin dropped his hat on the desk and disposed his big frame in the Morris chair. His coat was wrinkled, his trousers baggy. Under his coat was an old gray sweater. The head above the sweater collar was big and well-poised. The face was hard and strong; the eyes were alight with restlessness.
“I’m dog tired,” said Zanin. “Been rehearsing six hours straight.” And he added: “I suppose you haven’t had a chance to go over my scenario.”
“I’ve done more than that,” replied Peter calmly; “I’ve written a new one.” And as Zanin’s brows came down questioningly he added: “I think you’ll find I’ve pointed up your ideas. The thing was very strong. Once I got to thinking about it I couldn’t let go. What it needed was clarifying and rearranging and building for climaxes. That’s what makes it so hard for our people to understand you Russians – you are formless, chaotic.”
“Like life,” said Zanin.
“Perhaps. But not like our stage traditions. You wanted me to help you reach a popular audience. That’s what I’m trying to do for you.”
“Fine!” said Zanin doubtfully. “Let me take it along. I’ll read it to-night – go over it with Sue, perhaps.”
Peter shook his head.
“But I’ll have to see it, Mann.”
“I’ll read it to you – to you and Sue,” said Peter.
Zanin looked at him, faintly surprised and thinking.
Peter went back to the hearth, dropped on his knees and threw another bundle of letters into the fire.
“The fact is,” said Zanin, hesitating, “I had some work planned for Sue this evening.”
“No hurry,” remarked Peter.
“Ah, but there is.” Zanin hitched forward in his chair. The eager hardness came again into his eyes. His strong, slightly husky voice rose a little.
“Why? How so?” Peter settled back on his heels and poked the fire.
“Look here, Mann – everything’s just right for us now. I’ve interested the Interstellar people – that’s partly what I came to say – they’ll supply studio stuff for the interior scenes and a camera man. Also they’ll stand a third of the expense. They’re ready to sign whenever you are. And what’s more important – well, here’s the question of Sue.”
“What’s the question?”
“It’s delicate – but I’ll be frank.”
“Better be. You and I are going into this as business men, Zanin.”
“Exactly. As business men. Well – Sue’s a girl, after all. In this thing we are staking a lot on her interest and enthusiasm – pretty nearly everything.”
“Of course.
“Well, she’s ready – eager. I know her pretty thoroughly, Mann. I’ve studied her. We have no real hold on her. She isn’t a professional actress, to be hired at so much a week. Her only reason for going into it at all, is that she believes, with you and me, that the thing ought to be done. Now that’s all right. It’s fine! But it’s going to take delicate handling. A girl acts as she feels, you know. Right now Sue feels like doing my Nature film with all her might.” He spread out his hands. In his eyes was an eager appeal. “God, Maun, that’s all we’ve got! Don’t you see? Just Sue’s feelings!”
“I see,” Peter replied. He threw the last heap of photographs on the fire. “But what was the frank thing?”
Zanin hesitated; drummed nervously on the chair-arm. “I’m coming to that. It’s a bit awkward, Mann. It’s – well, I am more or less in Sue’s confidence, you know. I’m with her so much, I can sense her moods… The fact is, Mann, if you’ll let me say so, you don’t seem to understand women.”
“So I’ve been told,” remarked Peter dryly. “Go on with it.”
“Well, Sue’s got it into her head that you don’t get the idea of intelligent radicalism. That you’re…
“That I’m a reactionary.”
“Yes – that you’re a reactionary. She’s worried about the scenario – afraid you’ll miss the very point of it.” Again he spread out his large strong hands. “So don’t you see why I’m eager to get hold of it and read it to her” – he hesitated again, and