Thus Peter; his voice, pitched a little high, near to breaking with emotion; as if he were pleading with the one girl in the world—though, to be fair to Peter, she almost always was.
The Worm stepped into the bedroom, making as much noise as possible. But Peter talked on.
“Yes, you are taking exactly that position. As you know, I share your interest in freedom—but freedom without fairness or decent human consideration or even respect for one's word, comes down to selfish caprice. Yes, selfish caprice!”
The Worm picked up a chair and banged it against the door-post. But even this failed to stop Peter.
“Oh, no, my dear, of course I didn't mean that. I didn't know what I was saying. You can't imagine how I have looked forward to seeing you this evening. The thought of it has been with me all through this hard, hard day. I know my nerves are a wreck. I'm all out of tune. But everything seems to have landed on me at once...”
Finding the chair useless as a warning, the Worm sat upon it, made a wry face, folded his arms.
“... I've got to go away. You knew that, dear. This was my last chance to see you for weeks—and yet you speak of seeing me any time. It hurts, little girl. It just plain hurts to be put off like that. It doesn't seem like us.”
The Worm wondered, rather casually, to how many girls Peter had talked in this way during the past three years—stage girls, shop girls—the pretty little Irish one, from the glove counter up-town; and that young marred person on the upper West Side of whom Peter had been unable to resist bragging a little; and Maria Tonifetti, manicurist at the sanitary barber shop of Marius; and—oh, yes, and Grace Herring. Only last year. The actress. She played Lena in Peter's The Buzzard, and later made a small sensation in The Gold Heart. That affair had looked, for several months, like the real thing. The Worm recalled one tragic night, all of which, until breakfast rime, he had passed in that very studio talking Peter out of suicide.
He wondered who this new girl could be. Was it Sue, by any chance? Were they that far along?
The Worm got up with some impatience and went in there—just as Peter angrily slammed the receiver on its hook.