“It's a strain,” he said in a suppressed, clouded voice.
“Doubtless,” murmured the Worm, reaching for the evening paper.
“Zanin used to try to—to make love to her.”
Some effort must be made to stem this mounting current. “Oh, well,” said the Worm, rather hurriedly, “you're free from worry, Pete.”
“God—if I were!” muttered the eminent modernist.
“But you are! Good lord, man, here I've just asked her to have dinner with me, and she ducked. Wouldn't even eat with me.”
“But—”
“But nothing! It was flatly because she is engaged to you.”
Peter thought this over and brightened. “But see here!” he cried—“I'm not a Turk. I'm not trying to lock her up.”
The Worm was silent.