Sue, smiling a little, suddenly rather excited herself, pulled at the Worm's elbow. That young man turned.
“It seems to be across, Pete,” he said casually.
Peter glared at him.
But the words he might have uttered, by way of putting this too casual old friend in his place, remained unsaid. For Sue, demure of everything excepting eyes, remarked:
“My husband, Peter. We were married to-day.”
The playwright dropped, in one instant, from the pinnacle of fame, money power, on which, for nearly two hours, he had been exultingly poised. His chin sagged. His eyes were dazed. A white pinched expression came over his long face.
“Married—to-day!” He repeated the words in a flat voice.
She nodded. “You must congratulate us, Peter. We're dreadfully happy.”
Peter seemed unable, however, to say anything more. He continued to stare. The beginnings of a low laugh of sheer delight bubbled upward within Sue's radiant being. Peter heard it, or felt it. Suddenly he bolted—out through the crowd to the sidewalk. He brushed aside the enthusiastic hands that would detain him. He disappeared.
There are conflicting reports as to what occurred after this. The Evening Earth described the incident as taking place on the sidewalk directly in front of the theater. The Press-Record had it on the farther corner, across the side street. The Morning Bulletin and The Continental agreed that the woman pursued him through the stage door.