"Then," she said, lighting another cigarette. "if you're the average person you pretend to be, you never go to the opera, the theater, or read a book." "On the contrary," he said with contempt in his deep voice with the feminine overtones, "I love the opera and the theatre, especially first nights. And books are my great passion and extravagance."

"Proust and Gide and their kind. I suppose."

"Of course. Why not? Every literate person reads them. Don't you?" "No!" she exclaimed. "They appeal to a class of persons whom I despise. Homosexuals!" She ground her cigarette in the ashtray on his desk.

"What is the nature of your business with the company?" he asked with dignity, knowing her emotionalism could be costly to him.

"You'll know soon enough. I'm having fun, you seem so vulnerable." God, what one had to take to earn a living! he thought. But she was speak. ing again.

"I saw you last night," she cooed.

"Oh..." he said, wondering. "You did? Where?"

"The opening of Gide's "The Immoralist.""

"I told you I enjoyed first nights. But how did you know me?"

"And I told you I'd been in here many times. Remember? How long have you known Paul Schmerhorn?"

Now he knew her-the picture in Paul's desk! Why hadn't he realized what she was? His association with Paul was too precious to deny to anyone. "I've known him for years," he said with pride. "We went to college together. Apparently you know him."

"No, I wouldn't want to." she said with evident contempt. "I met him last summer at Placid."

Yes, he could have told her, I know. And this is your revenge for his rejection of your silly advances, your terrible possessiveness for two weeks. Why hadn't he realized that you both were out of character. He used you as camouflage because you were a good dancer. And you were probably testing yourself. I understand and pity you. I am indeed the vulnerable one. Paul is rich and his own master. Even if he could be publicly branded, it would be fruitless.

"Did Schmerhorn tell you anything about me?" she asked. "No. Was there anything to tell?"

"Well, if he didn't it was because he knew you'd be jealous."

"But why should I be jealous?"

"Why indeed!" she said, her voice rising in anger in the seeming portentous quiet. "I know he left Placid on your account. I've been in a rage with myself ever since."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous!" Falconer said angrily.

"It's you, Falconer, who'll be ridiculous when your employer gets the letter I have. You see, I didn't know your sweetheart had sneaked from the hotel. I went to his room, and it was empty. I found a letter lying on the floor. It was from you with love to dearest Paul. I didn't know much about him, and didn't want to, but I was a little bit suspicious. Then I saw you together at that homosexual play. My suspicions were confirmed by the mincing males you met at intermission."

She went on uttering words he did not want to hear, but that everyone else was hearing in the seeming deathly quiet. He knew that tomorrow would bring either dismissal from the job he loved or removal to another where he would not come in contact with the public. Rather than suffer such humiliation and the scorn of the conformists, he would resign as of today. He wanted only to be done with this interview and go home where he could cry unashamedly. "I wonder," he said to her who was now putting on her scarf and coat, "if you would be generous enough to give me the letter you say you have. I am its rightful owner, you know-or at least I think I am."

"Oh, you are, all right, but you'll get it through the telephone company." She walked quickly to the cashiers' counter. All eyes were on her. Silence reigned. Her deep voice rang out: "The telephone company should not employ persons like your manager. He's neither man nor woman."

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