“Of course the art is in its infancy,” remarked Henshaw, discarding his own cigarette.
“Ours is the Peter Pan of the arts,” announced the Governor, as he rose.
“The Peter Pan of the arts—”
“Yes. I trust you recall the outstanding biological freakishness of Peter.”
“Oh!” replied Henshaw.
When Merton Gill dared to glance up a moment later the men were matching coins at the counter. When they went out he left a half-eaten meal and presently might have been observed on a swift-rolling street-car. He mumbled as he blankly surveyed palm-bordered building sites along the way. He was again rehearsing a tense scene with the Montague girl. In actor parlance he was giving himself all the best of it. But they were new lines he mumbled over and over. And he was no longer eluded by the title of that book he remembered on the library shelf at Simsbury. Sitting in the cafeteria listening to strange talk, lashed by cruel memories, it had flashed upon his vision with the stark definition of a screened subtitle. He rang the Montague bell twice before he heard a faint summons to enter. Upon the parlour couch, under blankets that reached her pillowed head, lay Sarah. She was pale and seemed to suffer. She greeted him in a feeble voice, lids fluttering over the fires of that mysterious fever burning far back in her eyes.
“Hullo, Kid,” he began brightly. “Here’s your watch.” Her doubting glance hovered over him as he smiled down at her. “You giving it to me again, Merton?” She seemed unable to conquer a stubborn incredulity.
“Of course I’m giving it to you again. What’d you think I was going to do?”
She still surveyed him with little veiled glances. “You look so bright you give me Kleig eyes,” she said. She managed a wan smile at this.
“Take it,” he insisted, extending the package. “Of course it won’t keep Western Union time, but it’ll look good on you.”