the truffler opened at albany. before ten o'clock of that first evening even the author knew that-something was wrong with the second act.
the company wandered across new york state into pennsylvania; peter, by day and night, rewriting that unhappy act. the famous producer, max neuerman, fat but tireless, called endless rehearsals. there was hot coffee at one a. m., more hot coffee at five a. m., but it was never so hot as the scalding tears of the leading lady, miss trevelyan, who couldn't, to save her, make peter's lines come real.
'there were, also, dingy eagle houses and hotel lincolns where soggy food was hurled at you in thick dishes by strong-armed waitresses.
finally, neuerman himself dictated a new scene that proved worse than any of peter's. the publicity man submitted a new second-act curtain. the stage manager said that you couldn't blame miss trevelyan; she was an emotional actress, and should not be asked to convey the restraint of ironic comedy—in which belief he rewrote the act himself.
by this time, the second act had lost whatever threads of connecting interest it may have had with the first and third; so neuerman suggested that peter do those over. peter began this—locked up over sunday in a hotel room.
then neuerman made this announcement:
“well—got one more string to my bow. trevelyan can't do your play, and she's not good enough to swing it on personality. we're going to try some one that can.”
“who, for instance?” muttered peter weakly.
“grace derring.”
we have spoken of grace derring. it was not a year since that tumultuous affair had brought peter to the brink of self-destruction. and that not because of any coldness between them. not exactly. you see—well, life gets complicated at times. you are not to think harshly of peter; for your city bachelor does not inhabit a vacuum. there have usually been—well, episodes. nor are you to feel surprise that peter's face, in the space of a moment, assumed an appearance of something near helpless pain.
so grace herring was to be whirled back into his life—caught up out of the nowhere, just as his devotion to sue had touched exalted heights!
the voice of the fat manager was humming in his ears.
“she made good for us in the buzzard. of course her work in the gold heart has put her price up. but she has the personality. i guess we've got to pay her.”
peter started to protest, quite blindly. then, telling himself that he was too tired to think (which was true), he subsided.
“can you get her?” he asked cautiously.
“she's due here at five-thirty.”
peter slipped away. neuerman had acted without consulting him. it seemed to him that he should be angry. but he was merely dazed.
he walked the streets, a solitary, rather elegant figure, conspicuously a new yorker, swinging his stick savagely and occasionally muttering to himself. he roved out to the open country. maple buds were sprouting. new grass was pushing upward into the soft air. the robins were singing. but there were neither buds nor robins in peter's heart. he decided to be friendly with grace, but reserved.
it was nearly six when he entered the barnlike office of the hotel, his eyes on the floor, full of himself. then he saw her, registering at the desk.
he had stopped short. he could not very well turn and go out. she might see him.. and he was not afraid.
she did see him. he raised his hat, their hands met—he extremely dignified, she smiling a very little.
“well, peter!”
“you're looking well, grace.”
“am i?”
they moved, tacitly, into the adjoining parlor and stood by the window.
“i thought—” he began.
“what did you think, peter?” then, before he could reply, she went on to say: “i've been working through the middle west. closed in cincinnati last week.”
“had a hard season?”
“hard—yes.” she glanced down at a large envelope held under her arm. “mr. neuerman sent your play. i've just read it—on the train.”
“oh, you've read it?”
“yes.” again that hint of a smile. peter's eyes wandered about the room. “it's funny,” she murmured.
“what's funny?” said he severely.
“i was thinking of this play.” she took it out of the envelope and rapidly turned the typewritten pages. “so bachelor women are—what you call 'trufflers,' peter!”
“it is quite impersonal, grace.”
“oh, of course—a work of art—”
not clear what that twisted little smile of hers meant, he kept silent.
“oh, peter!” she said then, and left him. everything considered, he felt that he had handled it rather well.
this was tuesday. it was arranged that miss derring should make her first appearance thursday night. meantime, she was to get up her part and watch the play closely with the idea of possible suggestions. peter kept austerely aloof, working day and night on the revision of acts i and iii. neuerman and miss derring consulted together a good deal. on thursday, peter caught them at the luncheon table, deep in a heap of scribbled sheets of paper that appeared to be in grace's large hand.
they urged him to join them, but he shook his head. he did agree, however, to sit through the rehearsal, later in the afternoon.
thus it was that he found himself seated next to grace in one of the rear rows of a dim empty theater, all but lost in the shadows under the balcony. neuerman left them, and hurried down to the stage to pull his jaded company together.
it seemed to peter that they were very close, he and grace, there in the shadow. he could feel her sleeve against his arm. he wished neuerman would come back.
unexpectedly to himself, peter started nervously. his hat slipped from his knees. he caught it. his hand brushed grace's skirt, then her hand. slowly their fingers interlocked.
they sat there, minute after minute, without a sound, her fingers tight in his. then, suddenly, he threw an arm about her shoulders and tried to kiss her. with a quick little rustle, she pressed him back.
“don't,” she whispered. “not here.”
so peter leaned back and sat very still again, holding her hand down between the two seats.
finally the rehearsal was over. they evaded the manager and walked. there was a river in this town, and a river road. peter sought it. and out there in the country, with buds and robins all about them and buds and robins in his heart, he kissed her. he knew that there had never been any woman in all the world but grace, and told her so. all of his life except the hours he had spent with her faded into an unreal and remote dream.
grace had something on her mind. but it was a long time before she could bring peter to earth. finally he bethought himself.
“my dear child,” he said—they were strolling hand in hand—“here it is after seven! you've had no dinner—and you're going on to-night.”
“not to-night, peter. not until monday.”
“but—but—”
“mr. neuerman and i have been trying to explain what we were doing, but you wouldn't listen. peter, i've made a lot of suggestions for the part, he asked me to. i want your approval, of course. i'm going to ask him to show you what i've done.” but peter heard only dimly. near the hotel, she left him, saying, with a trace of anxiety: “i don't want to see you again, peter, until you have read it. look me up for lunch to-morrow, and tell me if you think i've hurt your play.”
neuerman came to him late that night with a freshly typed manuscript. he tried to read it, but the buds and robins were still alive, the play a stale dead thing.
friday morning, there was a letter for peter, addressed in sue's hand. the sight of it confused him, so that he put it in his pocket and did not open it until after his solitary breakfast. it had the effect of bringing sue suddenly to life again in his heart without, at first, crowding grace out.
“it's love that is the great thing,” he thought, explaining the phenomenon to himself. “the object of it is an incident, after all. it may be this woman, or that—or both. but the creative artist must have love. it is his life.”
then he read sue's letter; and pictures of her arose. it began to appear to him that sue had inspired him as grace never had. perhaps it was sue's youth. grace, in her way, was as honest as sue, but she was not so young. and the creative artist must have youth, too!
the letter was brief.
“could you, by any chance, run back to new york saturday—have tea with me? i want you here. come about four.”
but it fired his imagination. it was like sue to reach out to him in that abrupt way, explaining nothing.
then he settled down in his room, a glow in his heart, to find out just what grace and neuerman had done, between! them, to the truffler.
at noon that day a white peter, lips trembling, very still and stiff, knocked at miss derring's door.
she opened it, just dressed for luncheon.
“oh,” she cried—“peter!”
“here,” said he frigidly, “is the manuscript of your play.”
her eyes, very wide, searched his face.
“it is not mine. i wash my hands of it.”
“oh, peter—please don't talk like this.”
“you have chosen to enter into a conspiracy with neuerman to wreck what little was left of my play. with neuerman!” he emphasized the name. “i am through.”
“but, peter—be sensible. come to lunch and we'll straighten this up in five minutes. nothing is being forced on you. i was asked...”
“you were brought here without my knowledge. and now—this!”
he strode away, leaving the manuscript in her hands.
she stood there in the door, following him with bewildered eyes until he had disappeared around a turn in the hall.
peter, feeling strongly (if vaguely) that he had sacrificed everything for a principle, packed his suitcase, caught a train to pittsburgh, and later, a sleeper for new york.
