PETER tried to think. He could not lie there indefinitely with his face in his hands. But he couldn't think. His mind had stopped running.... At last he must face her. He remembered Napoleon. Slowly he lifted his head; got up.

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.

“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.

“Just a moment,” said Peter.

And Sue waited, by the door.

Peter took up the receiver. She heard him stammer—

“Oh—oh, all right—eleven o'clock—all right.”

“There,” said she, laughing a little. “It has happened, you see! I'm being put out.”

“I'm awfully sorry, Sue.”

“Oh, that doesn't matter! It's just amusing.”

“But I wouldn't have had it happen——”

His voice trailed off.

“Good night,” said she again.

“Good night, Sue. You are treating me better than I deserve.”

“We won't talk any more about it. Good night.” She tried to turn the catch on the lock. He reached out to help. His hand closed over hers. He turned; his eyes met hers; he took her in his arms again.

They moved slowly back toward the fire. “Peter—please!” she murmured. “It won't do.”

“Oh, Sue—Sue!” he groaned. “If we feel this way, why not marry and make a good job of it?”

Peter said this as she might have said it—all directness, matter-of-fact. “I wouldn't stop you, Sue. I wouldn't ever dominate you or take you for granted. I'd live for you, Sue.”

“I know.” She caught her breath and moved away from him. “You wouldn't stop me, but marriage and life would. No, Peter; not now. Marriage isn't on my calendar.... And, Peter, please don't make love to me. I don't want you to.”

Peter moved away, too, at this.

“Look here, Sue,” he said, after a moment's thought, rather roughly, “you go. We won't shake hands again. Just go. Right now. I promise I won't bother you. And we—we'll put the play through—put it through right.”

Her eyes were on his again, with a light in them.

A slow smile was coming to the corners of her mouth.

“Oh, Peter,” she said very gently, “don't you—when you say that—you make me—”

“Please—please go!” cried Peter.

The telephone rang.

“I'll think over the matter of the trip south,” said she, “and—”

“Sue, I want you to go!”

“—and let you know”. I'm not sure but what you're right. If we can do it up here....”

“Good God, Sue! Please! Please!”

She moved slowly toward the door, turned the catch herself, then glanced hesitatingly back.

Peter was standing rigidly before the fire, staring into it. He had picked up the poker and was holding it stiffly in his right hand.

She did not know that the man standing there was not Peter at all, but a very famous personage, shorter than Peter, and stouter, whose name had rung resoundingly down the slope of a hundred years.

He would not turn. So she went out.