“Well, really—” Hy began.
Betty rested her hand on his arm. “Perhaps, Mr. Bates—you see, some of my things are here—some things I need—”
Suddenly the Worm remembered. He blushed; then seemed to grow more angry.
“You'd better come in and get them,” said he.
“Well—if I might—”
They came in. Betty repacked her bog in the bedroom. Once she called to Hy; they whispered; then he brought her his bag.
Next Hy stood by the window and softly whistled a new rag. Meanwhile the Worm with a touch of self-consciousness, slipped on his coat. He had no bathrobe.
Hy, still whistling, looked at the litter of closely written sheets on the table.
“What's this,” said he—“writing your novel?”
“I was,” growled the Worm. He stared at the manuscript; then at Hy; then at the busy, beautiful, embarrassed young woman in the bedroom.