ered lights he
whispered, "What would you give for a copy of Simpson's letter
withdrawing his partnership offer?"

"You have it?" Her voice betrayed that she would give anything.

"What would you give me for it?" he murmured, and in the darkness he put
his arms about her and tried to draw her to him.

"I won't give you a thing!" Her voice was like steel, and so was her
body.

Albee's heart failed him. It seemed as if his arms were paralyzed. He
did not dare do what he had imagined himself doing--crushing her to him
whether she consented or not. He suddenly thought to himself that she
was capable of making an outcry.

"The inhuman, unfeminine creature!" he thought, even as he still held
her.

He felt her put out her hand and quietly take the letter from him. No,
that was a little too much! He caught her wrist and held it firmly. Then
the door opened, someone came in, Bobby's voice said, "Are you here,
Lydia?"

"Yes," said Lydia in her sweetest, most natural tone. "Turn on the
light, Bobby, or you'll fall over something. It's just there on your
right."

It took Bobby a moment to find the switch. When he turned on the light
he saw Lydia and Albee sitting side by side on the sofa. Lydia was
holding a folded paper in her hand.

"What's the point of sitting in here when the act is on?" said Bobby.
"Let's go in and see her vamp the strong man."

Lydia sprang up, and looking at Albee deliberately tucked away the paper
in the front of her low dress.

"Turn out the light again Bobby," she said. "It shines between the
curtains and disturbs me."

All three went back to the box, where Miss Bennett had been sitting
alone. It was a long time since Lydia had heard any music, and the music
of the second act of Samson and Delilah, the long sweeping chords on the
harp, began to trouble her, as the coming thunderstorm seemed to be
troubling Delilah.

Her long abstraction from any artistic impression made her as
susceptible as a child. The moonlight flooded her with a primitive
glamour, her nerves crept to the music of the incredibly sweet duet; and
when at last Samson followed Delilah into her house Lydia felt as if the
soprano's triumph were her own.

As the storm broke Albee rose. He bent over Miss Bennett and then over
Lydia.

"Good night, Delilah," he whispered.

She did not answer, but she thought, "Not to your Samson, Stephen
Albee."

He was gone and she still had the letter. When the act was over she went
b