The door opened then, quite abruptly. It was Robert Visigoth. He had a straw hat in one hand and an alligator traveling bag in the other. The latter he set down rather abruptly. So instantaneous was their springing apart and so ready the mind to believe what the heart denied, that it was almost conceivable that he had not seen. There was not even a pause, and through the perfunctory greetings of these two men of strangest relation, Lilly found herself somehow back at her desk, little prickles out all over her body and particularly against her face, like the bite of sleet, something like this running behind her lips: "Please, God, don't let him tell. He promised! Please! God, I'll never give in again. Bruce--my darling--don't let him tell you. He promised he wouldn't. Don't tell him, Robert. Bruce, don't let him. Please, God--don't let him." After a while, burning with the fever in her blood, she plunged, for the sedative of it, into the work before her. The first of a stack of reports on her desk was from the Adelphi Theater, Akron, Ohio. "Three Melodious Sisters." 12 minutes. Well received. Wardrobe worn. "Whistling Bicyclers." 14 minutes. Skillful. Comedy weak. "Please, God--don't let him--" "Shenck and Bent." 9 minutes. 3 laughs. "Sylvia King & Co." 9 minutes. Weak patter but finished strong. "Musical Gypsies." 10 minutes. Fair. Good opening number. "Please, God, don't let him tell." After what might have been minutes or hours, then, the door opened and without preamble Robert Visigoth walked in, and in the wide-kneed fashion forced upon him by corpulency seated himself beside her desk. "How long has this thing been going on?" he said, looking at her from under beetling brows that had grown bushy with the years. Time had done just that to Robert Visigoth. Beetled him. His years overhung him. He carried them massively. It was not so much that he had lost his waistline, but he had settled into himself. That was it! Robert Visigoth had settled rather appallingly into himself. For a second Lilly's eyes moved from the two fifty-cent cigars protruding from his waistcoat pocket to a lodge button at his lapel, and then, finally trapped, met his. "How long? I said." "You've told him?" she asked, leaning forward to hear through the buzzing in her ears. "Whether I do or not depends upon you." She tried not to let him see how the room was rocking around and around, how suddenly the buzzing had lifted until she felt light-headed. She could have shouted, danced, wept, or fainted her relief. Nothing mattered, not even the squatty person sitting there with little diabetic puffs beneath his eyes. "How long has this thing been going on?" he repeated, his voice a rising gale. "Are you your brother's keeper?" "From your kind, yes." "There has been nothing between us." "That's a lie." Through the scorch of her humiliation it was a second before she could command her lips. "I swear to God."