t scene she saw Eleanor rise and O'Bannon
follow her. She sprang up at once, though Miss Bennett faintly
protested.

"Oh, aren't you going to wait to see him pull down the temple? It's such
fun." Miss Bennett liked to see masculine strength conquer. Lydia shook
her head, but offered no explanation.

It was almost half past eleven when they entered the house. Miss
Bennett, who had been yawning on the drive home, walked straight to the
staircase. Morson had delegated his duties for the evening to the parlor
maid, a young Swede, and she began industriously drawing the bolts of
the front door and preparing to put out the lights. Lydia stopped her.

"Get me a glass of water, will you, Frieda?" she said.

"There'll be one in your room, dear," Miss Bennett called back, every
inch the housekeeper. She did not stop, however, but went on up and
disappeared round the turn in the stairs.

When the girl came back Lydia said, "Frieda, I'm expecting a gentleman
in a few minutes. After you've let him in you need not wait up. Is the
fire lit in the drawing-room? Then light it, please."

She stood for a moment, sipping at the long, cool glass and listening to
hear Miss Bennett's footsteps growing more and more distant; listening,
too, for a footstep in the street.

In the drawing-room the firelight was already leaping up, outdoing the
light of the shaded lamps. Left alone, Lydia slipped off her opera cloak
very softly, as if she did not want to make the smallest noise that
would interfere with her listening. The house was quiet, and even the
noise of the city was beginning to die down. The steady roar of traffic
returning from the theater was almost over. Now and then she could hear
a Fifth Avenue bus rolling along on its heavy rubber tires; now and
then the slamming of a motor door as some of her neighbors returned from
an evening's amusement.

She bent over the fire trying to warm her hands. They were like ice, and
it must have been from cold, not excitement, she thought, for her mind
felt as calm as a well. She turned the little clock--all lilac enamel
and rhinestones--so that she could watch it's tiny face. It was a
quarter to twelve. She clenched her hands. Did he intend to keep her
waiting?

She started, for the door had softly opened. Miss Bennett entered in one
of her gorgeous dressing gowns of crimson satin and bright-blue birds.

"Dear child," she said, "you ought to be in bed."

"I'm waiting for someone who's comi