Grace, subdued, thinking hard, took her hat from the wall rack. A woman had stabbed him. Grace knew, none better, that her Peter was an extremely subtle and plausible young man.
But she had wanted him. She had got him. And she let it go at that. In the ambulance, all the way to her rooms, her arm was under his head, her smile was instant when his roving gaze sought her face. It seemed to her that he was grateful, that he wanted her there. This was something. And the poor boy was suffering!
Once he spoke. He was very weak. And there was noise in the street. She had to bend close to hear him.
“What is it, dear?”
“That press-agent—I should have talked with him—something very important....”
Sue and her new husband rode down to Washington Square on the bus, and wandered over into Greenwich Village. It was midnight. There were few signs of life along the twisted streets and about the little triangular parks. But Jim's was open.
They had Welsh rabbits and coffee. The Worm lighted his caked old brier pipe.
“Been thinking over Pete's speech, Susan,” said he.
“Of course. So have I.”
“As I recall it, the gist of it”—the Worm's lean face bore the quizzically thoughtful expression that she loved to see there; she watched it now—“Pete uses the word 'truffler' to mean a young woman who turns from duty to the pursuit of enjoyment. Those were pretty nearly his words, weren't they?”