At one of the two front windows Henry Bates, of The Courier, otherwise the Worm, in striped, buttonless pajamas caught across the chest with a safety-pin, gazed down at the Square while feeling absently along the sill for the cream bottle.
The third member of our little group of bachelors, Peter Ericson Mann, was away; down at Atlantic City, working on something. Also nursing a broken heart. For everybody knew now that he and Sue Wilde were not to be married.
The desk served as breakfast table; an old newspaper as cloth. There were flaked cereal in bowls, coffee from the percolator on the bookcase, rolls from a paper sack.
The Worm lingered over his coffee. Hy gulped his, glancing frequently at his watch, propped against the inkstand.
“Oh,” observed the Worm, pausing in his task of cleaning his pipe with a letter opener, “I nearly forgot. A lady called up. While you were in the hath tub.”
“This morning?” Hy's face went discreetly blank.
“Yes, Miss—Miss—sounded like Banana.”
“Miss Sorana.” Hy's eyelids fluttered an instant. Then he lit a cigarette and was again his lightly imperturbable self. “What an ungodly hour!” he murmured, “for Silvia, of all girls. But she knows she mustn't call me at the office.”
The Worm regarded his roommate with discerning, mildly humorous eyes. “Who, may I ask, is Silvia? And what is she?”
Hy missed the allusion. “If The Evening Earth were ever to come into possession of my recent letters which I devoutly hope and trust they won't”—Hy staged a shudder—“they would undoubtedly refer to her as 'an actress.' Just like that. An actress.”