“I suppose so,” said she, rather shortly. “But then there's the expense side of it. Zanin keeps getting the bit in his teeth.... Lately I've begun to see that these quarrels are just the surface. The real clash lies deeper. It's partly racial, I suppose, and partly—”
“Personal?”
“Yes.” She threw out her hands. “They're fighting over me. I don't mind it so much in Peter. He has only lately come to see things our way. He never made the professions Zanin has of being superior to passions, jealousies, the sense of possession.”
She paused, brooding, oblivious now to her surroundings, slowly shaking her head. “Zanin has always said that the one real wrong is to take or accept love where it isn't real enough to justify itself. But now when I won't see him—those are the times he runs wild with the business. Then Peter has to row with him to check the awful waste of money. Peter's rather wonderful about it. He never loses his courage.”
This was a new picture of Peter. The Worm gave thought to it.
“First he took Zanin's disconnected abstractions and made a real film drama out of them. It's big stuff, Henry. Powerful and fine. And then he threw in every cent he had.”
“Peter threw in every cent!...” The Worm was startled upright, pipe in hand.
“Every cent, Henry. All his savings. And never a grudging word. Not about that.”
She dropped her chin on her hands. Tears were in her eyes. Her boy-cut short hair had lately grown out a little, and was rumpled where she had run her fingers through it. It was fine-spun hair and thick on her head. It was all high lights and rich brown shades. The Worm found himself wishing it was long and free, rippling down over her shoulders. He thought, too, of the fine texture of her skin, just beneath the hair. A warm glow was creeping through his nervous system and into his mind.... He set his teeth hard on his pipestem.
She leaned back more relaxed and spoke in a quieter tone. “You know how I feel about things, Henry. I quit my home. I have put on record my own little protest against the conventional lies we are all fed on from the cradle here in America. I went into this picture thing with my eyes open, because it was what I believed in. It wasn't a pleasant thought—making myself so conspicuous, acting for the camera without clothes enough to keep me warm. I believed in Zanin, too. And it seemed to be a way in which I could really do something for him—after all he had done for me. But it hasn't turned out well. The ideals seem to have oozed out of it.”