She had seated herself on an arm of the Morris chair, taken off her tarn o'shanter and was running her fingers through her rumpled short hair. She did not look at him. After a moment she put the tam o'shanter on again, but did not instantly get up; instead, reached out and drew the manuscript toward her.
Peter stood over the fire.
“Is it any good saying I'm sorry,” he began... “Please don't talk about it,” said she.
There was a long silence. Peter, helpless, tried and tried to think.... hy had brought him to this. In his heart he cursed Hy.
“I've been thinking,” said Sue, fingering the manuscript; then suddenly turning and facing him—“you and I can't do this sort of thing.”
“Oh, of course not,” he cried eagerly.
“If there's going to be emotional tension between us, why—-it's going to Be hard to do the work.” She took the manuscript up now and looked thoughtfully from page to page. “As I see the situation—if I see it at all—it's like this: You have solved our problem. Splendidly. There's our play. Like the rest of us, you are giving all you have. We've got to work hard. More, we've got to cooperate, very finely and earnestly. But we've got to be IMpersonal, businesslike. We've simply got to.”
“I know it,” said he ruefully.
“So, if our wires—yours and mine—are going to get crossed like—like this, well, you and I just mustn't see each other, that's all.”
“Of course,” said he.