Peter stirred uncomfortably, there on the couch. “What has she told you about Zanin?” he asked, desperately controlling his voice.
“She doesn't know that she has told me much of anything. But she has talked her work and prospects. And the real story comes through. Just this afternoon since I left her, it has been piecing itself together. She is frank, you know.”
Peter suppressed a groan. She was frank! “Zanin is in love with her. He has been for a year or more. He wrote Any Street for her, incorporated some of her own ideas in it. He has been tireless at helping her work up her dancing and pantomime. Why, as near as I can see, the man has been downright devoting his life to her, all this time. It's rather impressive. But then, Zanin is impressive.”
Peter broke out now. “Does he expect to marry her—Zanin?”
“Marry her? Oh, no.”
“'Oh, no!' Good God then—”
“Oh, come, Pete, you surely know Zanin's attitude toward marriage. He has written enough on the subject. And lectured—and put it in those little plays of his.”
“What is his attitude?”
“That marriage is immoral. Worse than immoral—vicious. He has expounded that stuff for years.”
“And what does she say to all this?” This question came from Hy, for Peter was speechless.