“Look on the desk. Didn't I bring up a note or something and lay it there?”
Hy was on the desk like a panther. There was a note. He tore it open, then thrust it into Peter's hands, crying hoarsely, “Read it!”--and dropped, a limp, dirt-streaked wreck of a man, into the Morris chair.
“_Henry, I'm not going. I hope this reaches you in time. Please understand--forgive if you can. You won't see me again. B._”
Peter read it again, thoughtfully; then looked up. His own none-too-clear eyes met Hy's distinctly bloodshot ones.
“And what do you think of that!” cried Hy. “What do you think of that!... Damn women, anyway! They don't play the game. They're not square.”... He was clenching and unclenching his hands. Suddenly he reached for the telephone.
But just as his hand closed on it, the bell rang.
Hy snatched up the receiver. “Yes!” he cried shortly--“Yes! Yes! He lives here. Wait a moment, please. It's for you, Fete.”
Peter sprang out of bed and hurried to the instrument.
“Oh--hello! I was going to call up myself in a few minutes. How have you been?”
“Not awfully fit. This constant rehearsing seems to be on my nerves, or something.”
There was a pause. Hy went off into the bedroom to get out of his travel-stained clothes.
“I wanted to say, Peter--I've been thinking it all over--”
“--and I've come to the conclusion that you are right about that southern trip. It really isn't necessary.”
“I do. And we must make Zanin see it as we do.”
“No. Can't work. Wish we could do something.”
“I'd like some air--to get away from the streets and that stuffy theater. What could we do?”
“I'll tell you what you need, child--just the thing! We'll run down to one of the beaches and tramp. Pick up lunch anywhere. What do you say?”
“I'll do it, Peter. Call for me, will you?... And oh, Peter, here's an odd thing! Betty packed up yesterday while I was out and went home. Just left a note. She has run away--given up. Going to marry a man in her town. He makes gas engines.”
Peter started the coffee machine, smiling as he worked. A sense of deep utter calm was flowing into his harassed spirit, pervading it.
He went into the bedroom and gazed with tolerant concern at the downcast Hy.
“The trouble with you, my boy,” he began, then paused.