“Don't let's trifle! You see, if it is any use at all to try to get a little—just a little—truth into the American theater, why, those of us that believe in truth owe it to our faith to get to work on the men that supply the plays.”
“Doubtless.” Peter's mind was racing in a dozen directions at once. This extraordinary young person had hit close; that much he knew. He wondered rather helplessly whether the shattered and scattered remnants of his self-esteem could ever be put together again so the cracks wouldn't show.
The confusing thing was that he couldn't, at the moment, feel angry toward the girl; she was too odd and too pretty. Already he was conscious of a considerable emotional stir, caused by her mere presence there across the table. She reached out now for another cigarette.
“I think,” said he gloomily, “that you'd better tell me your name.”
She shook her head. “I'll tell you how you can find me out.”
“How?”
“You would have to take a little trouble.”
“Glad to.”
“Come to the Crossroads Theater to-night, in Tenth Street.”
“Oh—-that little place of Zanin's.”