“I know who would want Willie in the Wilderness, if you made it into a play, and that’s Winfield Knight. Ever seen him?”
“I saw him in The Outsider. He’s clever.”
“He’s It, if he gets a part to suit him. If he doesn’t, he don’t amount to a row of beans. It’s just a gamble. This thing he’s in now is no good. The part doesn’t begin to fit him. In a month he’ll be squealing for another play, so’s you can hear him in Connecticut.”
“He shall not squeal in vain,” said Rutherford. “If he wants my work, who am I that I should stand in the way of his simple pleasures? I’ll start on the thing to-morrow.”
“I can help you some too, I guess. I used to know Winfield Knight. I can put you wise on lots of things about him that’ll help you work up Willie’s character so’s it’ll fit him like a glove.”
Rutherford raised his glass.
“Peggy,” he said, “you’re more than a mascot. You ought to be drawing a big commission on everything I write. It beats me how any of these other fellows ever write anything without you there to help them. I wonder what’s the most expensive cigar they keep here? I must have it, whatever it is. Noblesse oblige. We popular playwrights mustn’t be seen in public smoking any cheap stuff.”
It was Rutherford’s artistic temperament which, when they left the restaurant, made him hail a taxi-cab. Taxi-cabs are not for young men drawing infinitesimal salaries in banks, even if those salaries are supplemented at rare intervals by a short story in a magazine. Peggy was for returning to Alcala by car, but Rutherford refused to countenance such an anti-climax.
Peggy nestled into the corner of the cab, with a tired sigh, and there was silence as they moved smoothly up Broadway.
He peered at her in the dim light. She looked very small and wistful and fragile. Suddenly an intense desire surged over him to pick her up and crush her to him. He fought against it. He tried to fix his thoughts on the girl at home, to tell himself that he was a man of honour. His fingers, gripping the edge of the seat, tightened till every muscle of his arm was rigid.
The cab, crossing a rough piece of road, jolted Peggy from her corner. Her hand fell on his.
“Peggy!” he cried, hoarsely.
Her grey eyes were wet. He could see them glisten. And then his arms were round her, and he was covering her upturned face with kisses.
The cab drew up at the entrance to Alcala. They alighted in silence, and without a word made their way through into the hall. From force of habit, Rutherford glanced at the letter-rack on the wall at the foot of the stairs. There was one letter in his pigeon-hole.
Mechanically he drew it out; and, as his eyes fell on the handwriting, something seemed to snap inside him.
He looked at Peggy, standing on the bottom stair, and back again at the envelope in his hand. His mood was changing with a violence that left him physically weak. He felt dazed, as if he had wakened out of a trance.
With a strong effort he mastered himself. Peggy had mounted a few steps, and was looking back at him over her shoulder. He could read the meaning now in the grey eyes.