ack to the anteroom to read it. Yes, there it was on Simpson, Aspinwall
& McCarter's heavy, simple stationery--clear and unequivocal. Mr.
Simpson regretted so much that conditions had arisen which made it
imperative----

Lydia glanced across the house and caught O'Bannon laughing at something
that Eleanor was saying to him. She smiled. Whatever the joke was, she
thought she knew a better one.

"How lovely you look, Lydia," said Bobby, seeing the smile. "Almost like
a madonna in that white stuff--like a madonna painted by an Apache
Indian."

"Have you anything that I could write on Bobby--a scrap of paper?"

Bobby tore out a page from a cherished address book and gave it to her
with a gold pencil from his watch chain. She stood under the light,
pressing the top of the pencil against her lips. Then she wrote rapidly:

"I have something of importance to say to you. Will you meet me
in the lobby on the Thirty-ninth Street side at the end of the
performance and let me drive you home?

"LYDIA THORNE."

She folded it and held it out.

"Will you take that to O'Bannon and get an answer from him?"

"To O'Bannon?" said Bobby. "Has anything happened?"

"Don't bother me now, Bobby, there's a dear. Just take it." She half
shoved him out of the box. "And be as quick as you can," she called
after him.

He really was quick. In a few seconds she saw the curtain of the
opposite box pushed aside and Bobby enter. He spoke a moment to Eleanor,
and then when no one else was watching she saw him speak to O'Bannon
and give him her note. The two men rose and went together into the back
of the box out of her sight. What was happening? Was O'Bannon now on his
way to her? There was a long delay. Miss Bennett's voice called, "Is
somebody knocking?" The noise was Lydia's restless feet tapping on the
floor. Just as the lights began to go down Bobby returned--alone. He
handed her a note.

"Dear Miss Thorne: I cannot drive home with you, but I will
stop at your house for a few minutes about half-past eleven or
a quarter to twelve, if that is not too late.

"D. O'B."

Lydia smiled again. This was better still. She would have plenty of time
in her own drawing-room to reveal the facts in any way she liked. She
hardly heard the music of the next theme, hardly enjoyed the spectacle
of Samson's degradation, so absorbed was she in the anticipation of the
coming interview.

During the ballet in the las