“Why—Peter!”
The curtain slid swiftly up. And Peter Ericson Mann, looking really distinguished in his evening clothes, with the big glasses and the heavy black ribbon, very grave, walked deliberately out front, faced the footlights and the indistinct sea of faces, and unsmiling, waited for the uproar that greeted him to die down. He waited—it was almost painful—until the house was still..
Up in the gallery, Sue Wilde, leaning forward, her chin propped on her two small fists, said:
“That beats anything I ever....” She ended with a slow smile.
The Worm was studying the erect dignified figure down there on the stage. “You've got to hand it to Pete,” said he musingly. “He sensed it in the first act. He saw it was going to be a knock-out.”
“And,” said Sue, “he decided, after all, that it was his play. Henry, I'm not sure that he isn't the most irritating man on the earth.”
“He's that, all right, Sue, child; but I'm not sure that he isn't a genius.”
“I suppose they are like that,” said Sue, thoughtful.
“Egotists, of course, looking at everything with a squint—all off balance! Take Pete's own heroes, Cellini, Wagner—”
“Hush!” she said, slipping her hand into his, twisting her slim fingers among his—“Listen!”