Albert Penny at this time was second-assistant buyer for Slocum-Hines, and, at the instance of his friend Vincent, somewhat reluctantly present. "Al, what are you doing to-night?" "Oh, about the same old thing! Take a stroll and turn in, I guess. Why?" "There is a little gathering up at the Kembles' this evening. Thought maybe you'd like to meet the girl. Nothing formal, just a few of the girls and boys over to celebrate." "I'm not much on that kind of thing, Bankhead. Guess you'd better count me out." "Come along. Want to show you the kind of little peach I've picked." "Ask me out some night to a quiet little supper, Bankhead. I feel a cold coming on." "Quiet little supper, nothing. That's your trouble now, too much quiet. Nice people, her folks. It'll do you good." And so it came that when the folding doors between the Kemble dining room and parlor were thrown open, Lilly Becker, still flushed from a self-accompanied rendition of "Angels' Serenade" and an encore, "Jocelyn," and Albert Penny, in a neat business suit and plaid four-in-hand, found themselves side by side, napkin and dish of ice cream on each of their laps, gay little bubbles of conversation, that were constantly exploding into laughter, floating up from off the gathering. There is a photograph somewhere in an album of Lilly much as she must have looked that night. Her white organdie frock out charmingly around her, a fluted ruffle at the low neck forming fitting calyx for the fine upward flow of her high white chest into firm, smooth throat; the enormous puff sleeves of the period ending above the elbow where her arm was roundest; the ardent, rather upward thrust of face as if the stars were fragrant; the little lilt to the eyebrows; the straight gray eyes; the complexion smooth as double cream, flowing in cleanest jointure into the shining brown hair, worn in an age of Psyche or Pompadour, so swiftly and shiningly drawn back that it might have been painted there. That was the Lilly Becker upon whom Albert Penny cast the first second glance he had ever spared her sex. "Miss Becker, we certainly did enjoy your solo." She was still warmed from the effort, the tingling nervousness of the moment not yet died down, and she was eager and grateful. "Oh, Mr. Penny, did you really? I was so afraid I flatted there at the end." "I had to laugh the way they broke in with clapping before you were finished. I knew you weren't done." "Oh, then you're musical, too?" "No, but I could see there was one more page you hadn't turned." "Oh!" "My! but you can go high! Like a regular opera singer." "Oh, if I thought you meant that! It's my ambition to sing--real big opera, you know." "It certainly was a pretty song, not so much the song as the way you sang it. I could understand every word."