“Oh, of course—a work of art—”
Not clear what that twisted little smile of hers meant, he kept silent.
“Oh, Peter!” she said then, and left him. Everything considered, he felt that he had handled it rather well.
This was Tuesday. It was arranged that Miss Derring should make her first appearance Thursday night. Meantime, she was to get up her part and watch the play closely with the idea of possible suggestions. Peter kept austerely aloof, working day and night on the revision of Acts I and III. Neuerman and Miss Derring consulted together a good deal. On Thursday, Peter caught them at the luncheon table, deep in a heap of scribbled sheets of paper that appeared to be in Grace's large hand.
They urged him to join them, but he shook his head. He did agree, however, to sit through the rehearsal, later in the afternoon.
Thus it was that he found himself seated next to Grace in one of the rear rows of a dim empty theater, all but lost in the shadows under the balcony. Neuerman left them, and hurried down to the stage to pull his jaded company together.
It seemed to Peter that they were very close, he and Grace, there in the shadow. He could feel her sleeve against his arm. He wished Neuerman would come back.
Unexpectedly to himself, Peter started nervously. His hat slipped from his knees. He caught it. His hand brushed Grace's skirt, then her hand. Slowly their fingers interlocked.
They sat there, minute after minute, without a sound, her fingers tight in his. Then, suddenly, he threw an arm about her shoulders and tried to kiss her. With a quick little rustle, she pressed him back.
“Don't,” she whispered. “Not here.”