“It's too bad. When you were reading the scenario, and I saw what power and life you have put into it, I thought it would be particularly interesting to have you coach me. You could help me so. But it is something, at least—” she threw out her arms again with the gesture that he was sure he would associate with her as long as he lived—as he would remember the picture she made, seated there on an arm of the Morris chair, in his rooms....
His rooms! How often in his plays had he based his big scene on Her visit to His Rooms! And how very, very different all those scenes had been from this. He was bewildered, trying to follow her extraordinarily calm survey of the situation.
She was talking on. “—it is something at least to know that you have been able to do this for us.”
She slipped off the arm of the chair now and stood before him—flushed, but calm enough—and extended her hand.
“The best way, I think,” she said, “is for you not to see much of me just now. That won't interfere with work at rehearsals, of course. If there's something you want to tell me about the part, you can drop me a line or call me up.”
Peter took her hand, clasped it for a moment, let it fall.
She moved deliberately to the door. He followed her.
“But—” said Peter huskily—“but, wouldn't I better walk home with you?”
“No,” said she, momentarily compressing her lips. “No! Better not! The time to start being businesslike is right now. Don't you see?”
“Yes,” he murmured. “You are right, of course.” The telephone bell rang.