|SUE and the Worm had no more than seated themselves at the Muscovy when Zanin came briskly in, hat in hand--still in the wrinkled old suit, still wearing the gray sweater for a waistcoat--but keen of face, buoyant even. He threaded his way between the tables, nodding here and there in response to the cries of “Hello, Jacob!”--came straight to Sue, and, with a casual greeting for the Worm, bent over and claimed her ear.
“Sue,” he said low; “I called up, then took a chance on finding you here. I've sent the bill to Peter. And I've told him of the break in our plans. The lawyer for the Interstellar people is coming with the new contract--meets me up-stairs in the club. I've told Peter to be here at eight. But I've got to know about you. Is there any danger that you won't go through--finish the pictures?”
He nodded. “If Peter and I smash up. Whatever happens. I can't see ahead myself. But the pictures are half done, and they're all you. It would be serious if you--”
Sue silenced him with a nervous glance about; compressed her lips; turned her fork over and over on the table; then slowly nodded. “I'll finish,” she said very soberly.
“All right,” he replied. “I knew you would, of course. But I had to ask. Things have changed so.... I'll be down later.”
Sue watched him, still turning the fork with tense fingers, as he made his way to the door, paused for a word with one of the girl waitresses--an impoverished young writer and idealist, Jewish, rather pretty, who had played with them at the Crossroads--and finally disappeared in the hall, turning back toward the stairway that led up to the rooms of the Free woman's Club.
The Worm was studying the menu. He waited until her eyes and her thoughts returned to the table, then looked up at her with a quiet grin. “How about food, Sue?” said he.
She gazed at him, collected her thoughts, looked down at the card. Then she made an effort to smile.
“Sorry, Henry--I've lost my appetite.” She pressed the edge of the card against her pursed lips. “Henry, let's get out--go over to Jim's.”
He shook his head. “We can't,” he said. Then he saw her gaze narrow intently, over his shoulder--so intently that he turned.
Peter was standing in the doorway, peering about the room--a repressed, elaborately self-contained Peter. His mouth drooped at the corners. The lines that extended downward from his nose were deeper than usual, had something the appearance of being carved in a gray marble face.