THE Worm worked hard all of this particular day at the Public Library, up at Forty-second Street and Fifth Avenue. At five o'clock he came out, paused on the vast incline of marble steps to consider the spraying fountains of pale green foliage on the terraces (it was late April) and the brilliant thronging avenue and decided not to ride down to Washington Square on an autobus, but to save the ten cents and walk. Which is how he came to meet Sue Wilde.
She was moving slowly along with the stream of pedestrians, her old coat open, her big tarn o'shanter hanging down behind her head and framing her face in color. The face itself, usually vital, was pale.
She turned and walked with him. She was loafing, she said listlessly, watching the crowds and trying to think. And she added: “It helps.”
“Helps?”
“Just feeling them crowding around—I don't know; it seems to keep you from forgetting that everybody else has problems.”
Then she closed her lips on this bit of self-revelation. They walked a little way in silence.
“Listen!” said she. “What are you doing?”
“Half an hour's work at home clearing up my notes, then nothing. Thinking of dinner?”
She nodded.
“I'll meet you. Wherever you say.”