“Poor Peter”—this from Sue—“these first nights are a frightful strain.”
“Pete!” the Worm called softly.
He had to see them now. He came across the aisle, shook hands, peered gloomily, self-consciously down at them.
“Hiding?” asked Sue, all smiles.
Peter's gloom deepened. “Oh, no,” he replied.
“Evidently you're not figuring on taking the author's call,” said the Worm, surveying Peter's business suit.
The playwright raised his hand, moved it lightly as if tossing away an inconsiderable thing.
“Why should I? I'm not interested. It's not my play.”
The Worm was smiling. What was the matter with them—grinning like monkeys! Couldn't they at least show a decent respect for his feelings?
“There is a rather wide-spread notion to the contrary,” said the Worm.