So the Worm had to drink with them, but conviviality was not in his heart. He raised his glass; looked over it, grimly, at Peter. “I drink,” he said, “to Captain Miles Standish.”
Peter let it go as one of Henry Bates' quaint whimsies.
But Sue looked puzzled. And the Worm, suddenly contrite, got away and walked the streets, carrying with him a poignantly vivid picture of a fresh girlish face with high color and vivid green-brown eyes.
After a while he tried going home, weakly wishing he might find something to read; instead he found Hy Lowe and an extremely good-looking girl with mussed hair. They fairly leaped apart as he came stumbling in.
“We're trying a new step,” panted Hy quite wildly. “Oh, yes, this is Miss Hilda Hansen—Henry Bates.”
The Worm liked the way she blushed. But he suddenly and deeply hated Hy.
The Worm went out and sat on a bench in the Square. He was still sitting there when the moon came up over the half-clothed trees.
Little Italians from the dark streets to the southward played about the broad walks. Busses rumbled by on the central drive. A policeman passed.
Full-breasted girls arm in arm with swarthy youthful escorts strolled past. One couple sat on his bench and kissed. He got up hurriedly.
At last, rather late he stood, a lonely figure under the marble arch, gazing downward at his shoes, his stick, his well made, neatly pressed trousers. He took off his new hat and stared at it.