The expert waved his cigarette. “Sure. Kiss her.”
“Not at all. She hates you. Won't ever speak to you again.”
“She didn't think you were that sort; and won't for a minute permit you to think she's that sort.”
Another wave of the cigarette. “Slow down. Be kind to her. If she's a cross old thing, forgive her. Let her see that you're a regular fellow, even if you did start from third base instead of first. Above all, keep cool. Avoid tragedy, scenes. Keep smiling. When she does swing round--well, you've kissed her. There you are!”
Peter surveyed his apartment mate with gloomy eyes. “Sue and Betty are two very different girls,” said he.
“My son,” replied Hy, “I am not discussing persons. I am enunciating a principle. What may have passed between friend Betty and me has nothing to do with it.” He glanced at his watch. “Though I'll admit she is expecting me around this evening. She doesn't hate me, Pete.... Funny thing about Betty--she was telling me--there's a man up in her town pestering her to death. Letters and telegrams. Wants to marry her. He makes gas engines. Queer about these small-town fellows--they can't understand a free-spirited woman. Imagine Betty cooped up like that!”
“I'm not likely to be kissing Sue,” growled Peter.
“My son, you've as good as done it already. From your own admission. Asked her to marry you. Right off, too--just like that! Can't you see it's the same thing in principle--shock and reaction! She'd have preferred the kiss of course--”
“The trouble with you, Pete, is that you don't understand women. According to your own story again, you startled her so that she left you on a country road and walked ten miles alone rather than answer you. I tell you, get a woman real angry at you just once, and she can't be indifferent to you as long as she lives. Hate you--yes. Love you--yes. Indifferent--no.... You've started something. Give her time.”
“Time!” snorted Peter. “Time!” He paced the long room; kicked the closet door shut; gave the piano keys a savage bang.
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.