Nelly soothed him. "The play _is_ going well, _isn't_ it?"
When he had, with a detached grandeur of which he was
immediately ashamed, vouchsafed that he was already "getting
right down to brass tacks on it," that he had already
investigated four more plays and begun the actual writing,
every one looked awed and asked him assorted questions.
At nine-thirty that evening he combed and tightly brushed his
hair, which he had been pawing angrily for an hour and a half,
went down the hall to Nelly's hall bedroom, and knocked with:
"It's Mr. Wrenn. May I ask you something about the play?"
"Just a moment," he heard her say.
He waited, panting softly, his lips apart. This was to be the
first time he had ever seen Nelly's room. She opened the door
part way, smiling shyly, timidly, holding her pale-blue
dressing-gown close. The pale blueness was a modestly brilliant
spot against the whiteness of the room--white bureau, hung with
dance programs and a yellow Upton's Grove High School banner,
white tiny rocker, pale-yellow matting, white-and-silver
wall-paper, and a glimpse of a white soft bed.
Pages:
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347