"No, he won't know it until he opens his mail to-morrow morning."
Lydia leaned forward and peered out into the house between the curtains. Then she turned back and smiled again, but this time with amusement.
"He's over there now with Eleanor, pleased to death with himself and thinking the world is his oyster."
Albee had been standing. Now as the lights began to sink for the opening of the second act he gave an exclamation of annoyance.
"I have something to show you," he said. He sat down beside her on the narrow little sofa, and lowering his voice to fit the lowered 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.