if fanny brandeis, the deliberately selfish, the calculatingly ambitious, was aghast at the trick fate had played her, she kept her thoughts to herself. knowing her, i think she must have been grimly amused at finding herself saddled with a helpless baby, a bewildered peasant woman, and an artist brother both helpless and bewildered.

it was out of the question to house them in her small apartment. she found a furnished apartment near her own, and installed them there, with a working housekeeper in charge. she had a gift for management, and she arranged all these details with a brisk capability that swept everything before it. a sunny bedroom for mizzi. but then, a bright living room, too, for theodore's hours of practice. no noise. chicago's roar maddened him. otti shied at every new contrivance that met her eye. she had to be broken in to elevators, electric switches, hot and cold faucets, radiators.

“no apartment ever built could cover all the requirements,” fanny confided to fenger, after the first harrowing week. “what they really need is a combination palace, houseboat, sanatorium, and creche.”

“look here,” said fenger. “if i can help, why—” a sudden thought struck him. “why don't you bring 'em all down to my place in the country? we're not there half the time. it's too cool for my wife in september. just the thing for the child, and your brother could fiddle his head off.”

the fengers had a roomy, wide-verandaed house near lake forest; one of the many places of its kind that dot the section known as the north shore. its lawn sloped gently down to the water's edge. the house was gay with striped awnings, and scarlet geraniums, and chintz-covered chairs. the bright, sparkling, luxurious little place seemed to satisfy a certain beauty-sense in fenger, as did the etchings on the walls in his office. fanny had spent a week-end there in july, with three or four other guests, including fascinating facts. she had been charmed with it, and had announced that her energies thereafter would be directed solely toward the possession of just such a house as this, with a lawn that was lipped by the lake, awnings and geraniums to give it a french cafe air; books and magazines enough to belie that.

“and i'll always wear white,” she promised, gayly, “and there'll be pitchers on every table, frosty on the outside, and minty on the inside, and you're all invited.”

they had laughed at that, and so had she, but she had been grimly in earnest just the same.

she shook her head now at fenger's suggestion. “imagine mrs. fenger's face at sight of mizzi, and theodore with his violin, and otti with her shawls and paraphernalia. though,” she added, seriously, “it's mighty kind of you, and generous—and just like a man.”

“it isn't kindness nor generosity that makes me want to do things for you.”

“modest,” murmured fanny, wickedly, “as always.”

fenger bent his look upon her. “don't try the ingenue on me, fanny.”

theodore's manager, kurt stein, was to have followed him in ten days. the war changed that. the war was to change many things. fanny seemed to sense the influx of musicians that was to burst upon the united states following the first few weeks of the catastrophe, and she set about forestalling it. advertising. that was what theodore needed. she had faith enough in his genius. but her business sense told her that this genius must be enhanced by the proper setting. she set about creating this setting. she overlooked no chance to fix his personality in the kaleidoscopic mind of the american public—or as much of it as she could reach. his publicity man was a dignified german-american whose methods were legitimate and uninspired. fanny's enthusiasm and superb confidence in theodore's genius infected fenger, fascinating facts, even nathan haynes himself. nathan haynes had never posed as a patron of the arts, in spite of his fantastic millions. but by the middle of september there were few of his friends, or his wife's friends, who had not heard of this theodore brandeis. in chicago, illinois, no one lives in houses, it is said, except the city's old families, and new millionaires. the rest of the vast population is flat-dwelling. to say that nathan haynes' spoken praise reached the city's house-dwellers would carry with it a significance plain to any chicagoan.

as for fanny's method; here is a typical example of her somewhat crude effectiveness in showmanship. otti had brought with her from vienna her native peasant costume. it is a costume seen daily in the austrian capital, on the ring, in the stadt park, wherever viennese nurses convene with their small charges. to the american eye it is a musical comedy costume, picturesque, bouffant, amazing. your austrian takes it quite for granted. regardless of the age of the nurse, the skirt is short, coming a few inches below the knees, and built like a lamp shade, in color usually a bright scarlet, with rows of black velvet ribbon at the bottom. beneath it are worn skirts and skirts, and skirts, so that the opera-bouffe effect is complete. the bodice is black velvet, laced over a chemise of white. the head-gear a soaring winged affair of stiffly starched white, that is a pass between the breton peasant woman's cap and an aeroplane. black stockings and slippers finish the costume.

otti and mizzi spent the glorious september days in lincoln park, otti garbed in staid american stripes and apron, mizzi resplendent in smartest of children's dresses provided for her lavishly by her aunt. her fat and dimpled hands smoothed the blue, or pink or white folds with a complacency astonishing in one of her years. “that's her mother in her,” fanny thought.

one rainy autumn day fanny entered her brother's apartment to find otti resplendent in her viennese nurse's costume. mizzi had been cross and fretful, and the sight of the familiar scarlet and black and white, and the great winged cap seemed to soothe her.

“otti!” fanny exclaimed. “you gorgeous creature! what is it? a dress rehearsal?” otti got the import, if not the english.

“so gehen wir im wien,” she explained, and struck a killing pose.

“everybody? all the nurses? alle?”

“aber sure,” otti displayed her half dozen english words whenever possible.

fanny stared a moment. her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “to-morrow's saturday,” she said, in german. “if it's fair and warm you put on that costume and take mizzi to the park.... certainly the animal cages, if you want to. if any one annoys you, come home. if a policeman asks you why you are dressed that way tell him it is the costume worn by nurses in vienna. give him your name. tell him who your master is. if he doesn't speak german—and he won't, in chicago—some one will translate for you.”

not a sunday paper in chicago that did not carry a startling picture of the resplendent otti and the dimpled and smiling mizzi. the omnipresent staff photographer seemed to sniff his victim from afar. he pounced on theodore brandeis' baby daughter, accompanied by her viennese nurse (in costume) and he played her up in a sunday special that was worth thousands of dollars, fanny assured the bewildered and resentful theodore, as he floundered wildly through the billowing waves of the sunday newspaper flood. theodore's first appearance was to be in chicago as soloist with the chicago symphony orchestra, in the season's opening program in october. any music-wise chicagoan will tell you that the chicago symphony orchestra is not only a musical organization functioning marvelously (when playing beethoven). it is an institution. its patrons will admit the existence, but not the superiority of similar organizations in boston, philadelphia and new york. on friday afternoons, during the season, orchestra hall, situate on michigan boulevard, holds more pretty girls and fewer men than one might expect to see at any one gathering other than, perhaps, a wholesale debutante tea crush. a friday afternoon ticket is as impossible of attainment for one not a subscriber as a seat in heaven for a sinner. saturday night's audience is staider, more masculine, less staccato. gallery, balcony, parquet, it represents the city's best. its men prefer beethoven to berlin. its women could wear pearl necklaces, and don't. between the audience and the solemn black-and-white rows on the platform there exists an entente cordiale. the konzert-meister bows to his friend in the third row, as he tucks his violin under his chin. the fifth row, aisle, smiles and nods to the sausage-fingered 'cellist.

“fritz is playing well to-night.”

in a rarefied form, it is the atmosphere that existed between audience and players in the days of the old and famous daly stock company.

such was the character of the audience theodore was to face on his first appearance in america. fanny explained its nature to him. he shrugged his shoulders in a gesture as german as it was expressive.

theodore seemed to have become irrevocably german during the years of his absence from america. he had a queer stock of little foreign tricks. he lifted his hat to men acquaintances on the street. he had learned to smack his heels smartly together and to bow stiffly from the waist, and to kiss the hand of the matrons—and they adored him for it. he was quite innocent of pose in these things. he seemed to have imbibed them, together with his queer german haircut, and his incredibly german clothes.

fanny allowed him to retain the bow, and the courtly hand-kiss, but she insisted that he change the clothes and the haircut.

“you'll have to let it grow, ted. i don't mean that i want you to have a mane, like ysaye. but i do think you ought to discard that convict cut. besides, it isn't becoming. and if you're going to be an american violinist you'll have to look it—with a foreign finish.” he let his hair grow. fanny watched with interest for the appearance of the unruly lock which had been wont to straggle over his white forehead in his schoolboy days. the new and well-cut american clothes effected surprisingly little change. fanny, surveying him, shook her head.

“when you stepped off the ship you looked like a german in german clothes. now you look like a german in american clothes. i don't know—i do believe it's your face, ted. i wouldn't have thought that ten years or so in any country could change the shape of one's nose, and mouth and cheekbones. do you suppose it's the umlauts?”

“cut it out!” laughed ted, that being his idea of modern american slang. he was fascinated by these crisp phrases, but he was ten years or so behind the times, and he sometimes startled his hearers by an exhibition of slang so old as to be almost new. it was all the more startling in contrast with his conversational english, which was as carefully correct as a born german's.

as for the rest, it was plain that he was interested, but unhappy. he practiced for hours daily. he often took mizzi to the park and came back storming about the dirt, the noise, the haste, the rudeness, the crowds, the mismanagement of the entire city. dummheit, he called it. they profaned the lake. they allowed the people to trample the grass. they threw papers and banana skins about. and they wasted! his years in germany had taught him to regard all these things as sacrilege, and the last as downright criminal. he was lonesome for his germany. that was plain. he hated it, and loved it, much as he hated and loved the woman who had so nearly spoiled his life. the maelstrom known as the southwest corner of state and madison streets appalled him.

“gott!” he exclaimed. “es ist unglaublich! aber ganz unglaublich! ich werde bald veruckt.” he somehow lapsed into german when excited.

fanny took him to the haynes-cooper plant one day, and it left him dazed, and incredulous. she quoted millions at him. he was not interested. he looked at the office workers, the mail-room girls, and shook his head, dumbly. they were using bicycles now, with a bundle rack in the front, in the vast stock rooms, and the roller skates had been discarded as too slow. the stock boys skimmed around corners on these lightweight bicycles, up one aisle, and down the next, snatching bundles out of bins, shooting bundles into bins, as expertly as players in a gymkhana.

theodore saw the uncanny rapidity with which the letter-opening machines did their work. he watched the great presses that turned out the catalogue—the catalogue whose message meant millions; he sat in fenger's office and stared at the etchings, and said, “certainly,” with politeness, when fenger excused himself in the midst of a conversation to pick up the telephone receiver and talk to their shoe factory in maine. he ended up finally in fanny's office, no longer a dingy and undesirable corner, but a quietly brisk center that sent out vibrations over the entire plant. slosson, incidentally, was no longer of the infants' wear. he had been transferred to a subordinate position in the grocery section.

“well,” said fanny, seating herself at her desk, and smiling radiantly upon her brother. “well, what do you think of us?”

and then theodore brandeis, the careless, the selfish, the blind, said a most amazing thing.

“fanny, i'll work. i'll soon get some of these millions that are lying about everywhere in this country. and then i'll take you out of this. i promise you.”

fanny stared at him, a picture of ludicrous astonishment.

“why, you talk as if you were—sorry for me!”

“i am, dear. god knows i am. i'll make it up to you, somehow.”

it was the first time in all her dashing and successful career that fanny brandeis had felt the sting of pity. she resented it, hotly. and from theodore, the groper, the—“but at any rate,” something within her said, “he has always been true to himself.”

theodore's manager arrived in september, on a holland boat, on which he had been obliged to share a stuffy inside cabin with three others. kurt stein was german born, but american bred, and he had the american love of luxurious travel. he was still testy when he reached chicago and his charge.

“how goes the work?” he demanded at once, of theodore. he eyed him sharply. “that's better. you have lost some of the look you had when you left wien. the ladies would have liked that look, here in america. but it is bad for the work.”

he took fanny aside before he left. his face was serious. it was plain that he was disturbed. “that woman,” he began. “pardon me, mrs. brandeis. she came to me. she says she is starving. she is alone there, in vienna. her—well, she is alone. the war is everywhere. they say it will last for years. she wept and pleaded with me to take her here.”

“no!” cried fanny. “don't let him hear it. he mustn't know. he——”

“yes, i know. she is a paradox, that woman. i tell you, she almost prevailed on me. there is something about her; something that repels and compels.” that struck him as being a very fine phrase indeed, and he repeated it appreciatively.

“i'll send her money, somehow,” said fanny.

“yes. but they say that money is not reaching them over there. i don't know what becomes of it. it vanishes.” he turned to leave. “oh, a message for you. on my boat was schabelitz. it looks very much as if his great fortune, the accumulation of years, would be swept away by this war. already they are tramping up and down his lands in poland. his money—much of it—is invested in great hotels in poland and russia, and they are using them for barracks and hospitals.”

“schabelitz! you mean a message for theodore? from him? that's wonderful.”

“for theodore, and for you, too.”

“for me! i made a picture of him once when i was a little girl. i didn't see him again for years. then i heard him play. it was on his last tour here. i wanted to speak to him. but i was afraid. and my face was red with weeping.”

“he remembers you. and he means to see theodore and you. he can do much for theodore in this country, and i think he will. his message for you was this: `tell her i still have the picture that she made of me, with the jack-in-the-box in my hand, and that look on my face. tell her i have often wondered about that little girl in the red cap and the black curls. i've wondered if she went on, catching that look back of people's faces. if she did, she should be more famous than her brother.”'

“he said that! about me!”

“i am telling you as nearly as i can. he said, `tell her it was a woman who ruined bauer's career, and caused him to end his days a music teacher in—in—gott! i can't remember the name of that town——”

“winnebago.”

“winnebago. that was it. `tell her not to let the brother spoil his life that way.' so. that is the message. he said you would understand.”

theodore's face was ominous when she returned to him, after stein had left.

“i wish you and stein wouldn't stand out there in the hall whispering about me as if i were an idiot patient. what were you saying?”

“nothing, ted. really.”

he brooded a moment. then his face lighted up with a flash of intuition. he flung an accusing finger at fanny.

“he has seen her.”

“ted! you promised.”

“she's in trouble. this war. and she hasn't any money. i know. look here. we've got to send her money. cable it.”

“i will. just leave it all to me.”

“if she's here, in this country, and you're lying to me——”

“she isn't. my word of honor, ted.”

he relaxed.

life was a very complicated thing for fanny these days. ted was leaning on her; mizzi, otti, and now fenger. nathan haynes was poking a disturbing finger into that delicate and complicated mechanism of system which fenger had built up in the haynes-cooper plant. and fenger, snarling, was trying to guard his treasure. he came to fanny with his grievance. fanny had always stimulated him, reassured him, given him the mental readjustment that he needed.

he strode into her office one morning in late september. ordinarily he sent for her. he stood by her desk now, a sheaf of papers in his hand, palpably stage props, and lifted significant eyebrows in the direction of the stenographer busy at her typewriter in the corner.

“you may leave that, miss mahin,” fanny said. miss mahin, a comprehending young woman, left it, and the room as well. fenger sat down. he was under great excitement, though he was quite controlled. fanny, knowing him, waited quietly. his eyes held hers.

“it's come,” fenger began. “you know that for the last year haynes has been milling around with a herd of sociologists, philanthropists, and students of economics. he had some scheme in the back of his head, but i thought it was just another of his impractical ideas. it appears that it wasn't. between the lot of them they've evolved a savings and profit-sharing plan that's founded on a kind of practical universal brotherhood dream. haynes's millions are bothering him. if they actually put this thing through i'll get out. it'll mean that everything i've built up will be torn down. it will mean that any six-dollar-a-week girl——”

“as i understand it,” interrupted fanny, “it will mean that there will be no more six-dollar-a-week girls.”

“that's it. and let me tell you, once you get the ignorant, unskilled type to believing they're actually capable of earning decent money, actually worth something, they're worse than useless. they're dangerous.”

“you don't believe that.”

“i do.”

“but it's a theory that belongs to the dark ages. we've disproved it. we've got beyond that.”

“yes. so was war. we'd got beyond it. but it's here. i tell you, there are only two classes: the governing and the governed. that has always been true. it always will be. let the socialists rave. it has never got them anywhere. i know. i come from the mucker class myself. i know what they stand for. boost them, and they'll turn on you. if there's anything in any of them, he'll pull himself up by his own bootstraps.”

“they're not all potential fengers.”

“then let 'em stay what they are.”

fanny's pencil was tracing and retracing a tortured and meaningless figure on the paper before her. “tell me, do you remember a girl named sarah sapinsky?”

“never heard of her.”

“that's fitting. sarah sapinsky was a very pretty, very dissatisfied girl who was a slave to the bundle chute. one day there was a period of two seconds when a bundle didn't pop out at her, and she had time to think. anyway, she left. i asked about her. she's on the streets.”

“well?”

“thanks to you and your system.”

“look here, fanny. i didn't come to you for that kind of talk. don't, for heaven's sake, give me any sociological drivel to-day. i'm not here just to tell you my troubles. you know what my contract is here with haynes-cooper. and you know the amount of stock i hold. if this scheme of haynes's goes in, i go out. voluntarily. but at my own price. the haynes-cooper plant is at the height of its efficiency now.” he dropped his voice. “but the mail order business is in its infancy. there's no limit to what can be done with it in the next few years. understand? do you get what i'm trying to tell you?” he leaned forward, tense and terribly in earnest.

fanny stared at him. then her hand went to her head in a gesture of weariness. “not to-day. please. and not here. don't think i'm ungrateful for your confidence. but—this month has been a terrific strain. just let me pass the fifteenth of october. let me see theodore on the way——”

fenger's fingers closed about her wrist. fanny got to her feet angrily. they glared at each other a moment. then the humor of the picture they must be making struck fanny. she began to laugh. fenger's glare became a frown. he turned abruptly and left the office. fanny looked down at her wrist ruefully. four circlets of red marked its smooth whiteness. she laughed again, a little uncertainly this time.

when she got home that night she found, in her mail, a letter for theodore, postmarked vienna, and stamped with the mark of the censor. theodore had given her his word of honor that he would not write olga, or give her his address. olga was risking fanny's address. she stood looking at the letter now. theodore was coming in for dinner, as he did five nights out of the week. as she stood in the hallway, she heard the rattle of his key in the lock. she flew down the hall and into her bedroom, her letters in her hand. she opened her dressing table drawer and threw them into it, switched on the light and turned to face theodore in the doorway.

“'lo, sis.”

“hello, teddy. kiss me. phew! that pipe again. how'd the work go to-day?”

“so—so. any mail for me?”

“no.”

that night, when he had gone, she took out the letter and stood turning it over and over in her hands. she had no thought of reading it. it was its destruction she was contemplating. finally she tucked it away in her handkerchief box. perhaps, after the fifteenth of october. everything depended on that.

and the fifteenth of october came. it had dragged for weeks, and then, at the end, it galloped. by that time fanny had got used to seeing theodore's picture and name outside orchestra hall, and in the musical columns of the papers. brandeis. theodore brandeis, the violinist. the name sang in her ears. when she walked on michigan avenue during that last week she would force herself to march straight on past orchestra hall, contenting herself with a furtive and oblique glance at the announcement board. the advance programs hung, a little bundle of them, suspended by a string from a nail on the wall near the box office, so that ticket purchasers might rip one off and peruse the week's musical menu. fanny longed to hear the comment of the little groups that were constantly forming and dispersing about the box office window. she never dreamed of allowing herself to hover near it. she thought sometimes of the woman in the businesslike gray skirt and the black sateen apron who had drudged so cheerfully in the little shop so that theodore brandeis' name might shine now from the very top of the program, in heavy black letters:

soloist: mr. theodore brandeis, violin

the injustice of it. fanny had never ceased to rage at that.

in the years to come theodore brandeis was to have that adulation which the american public, temperamentally so cold, gives its favorite, once the ice of its reserve is thawed. he was to look down on that surging, tempestuous crowd which sometimes packs itself about the foot of the platform in carnegie hall, demanding more, more, more, after a generous concert is concluded. he had to learn to protect himself from those hysterical, enraptured, wholly feminine adorers who swarmed about him, scaling the platform itself. but of all this there was nothing on that friday and saturday in october. orchestra hall audiences are not, as a rule, wildly demonstrative. they were no exception. they listened attentively, appreciatively. they talked, critically and favorably, on the way home. they applauded generously. they behaved as an orchestra hall audience always behaves, and would behave, even if it were confronted with a composite elman-kreisler-ysaye soloist. theodore's playing was, as a whole, perhaps the worst of his career. not that he did not rise to magnificent heights at times. but it was what is known as uneven playing. he was torn emotionally, nervously, mentally. his playing showed it.

fanny, seated in the auditorium, her hands clasped tight, her heart hammering, had a sense of unreality as she waited for theodore to appear from the little door at the left. he was to play after the intermission. fanny had arrived late, with theodore, that friday afternoon. she felt she could not sit through the first part of the program. they waited together in the anteroom. theodore, looking very slim and boyish in his frock coat, walked up and down, up and down. fanny wanted to straighten his tie. she wanted to pick an imaginary thread off his lapel. she wanted to adjust the white flower in his buttonhole (he jerked it out presently, because it interfered with his violin, he said). she wanted to do any one of the foolish, futile things that would have served to relieve her own surcharged feelings. but she had learned control in these years. and she yielded to none of them.

the things they said and did were, perhaps, almost ludicrous.

“how do i look?” theodore demanded, and stood up before her.

“beautiful!” said fanny, and meant it.

theodore passed a hand over his cheek. “cut myself shaving, damn it!”

“it doesn't show.”

he resumed his pacing. now and then he stopped, and rubbed his hands together with a motion we use in washing. finally:

“i wish you'd go out front,” he said, almost pettishly. fanny rose, without a word. she looked very handsome. excitement had given her color. the pupils of her eyes were dilated and they shone brilliantly. she looked at her brother. he stared at her. they swayed together. they kissed, and clung together for a long moment. then fanny turned and walked swiftly away, and stumbled a little as she groped for the stairway.

the bell in the foyer rang. the audience strolled to the auditorium. they lagged, fanny thought. they crawled. she told herself that she must not allow her nerves to tease her like that. she looked about her, with outward calm. her eyes met fenger's. he was seated, alone. it was he who had got a subscription seat for her from a friend. she had said she preferred to be alone. she looked at him now and he at her, and they did not nod nor smile. the house settled itself flutteringly.

a man behind fanny spoke. “who's this brandeis?”

“i don't know. a new one. german, i guess. they say he's good. kreisler's the boy who can play for me, though.”

the orchestra was seated now. stock, the conductor, came out from the little side door. behind him walked theodore. there was a little, impersonal burst of applause. stock mounted his conductor's platform and glanced paternally down at theodore, who stood at the left, violin and bow in hand, bowing. the audience seemed to warm to his boyishness. they applauded again, and he bowed in a little series of jerky bobs that waggled his coat-tails. heels close together, knees close together. a german bow. and then a polite series of bobs addressed to stock and his orchestra. stock's long, slim hands poised in air. his fingertips seemed to draw from the men before him the first poignant strains of theodore's concerto. theodore stood, slim and straight. fanny's face, lifted toward him, was a prayerful thing. theodore suddenly jerked back the left lapel of his coat in a little movement fanny remembered as typical in his boyish days, nuzzled his violin tenderly, and began to play.

it is the most excruciating of instruments, the violin, or the most exquisite. i think fanny actually heard very little of his playing. her hands were icy. her cheeks were hot. the man before her was not theodore brandeis, the violinist, but teddy, the bright-haired, knickered schoolboy who played to those people seated in the yellow wooden pews of the temple in winnebago. the years seemed to fade away. he crouched over his violin to get the 'cello tones for which he was to become famous, and it was the same hunched, almost awkward pose that the boy had used. fanny found herself watching his feet as his shifted his position. he was nervous. and he was not taken out of himself. she knew that because she saw the play of his muscles about the jaw-bone. it followed that he was not playing his best. she could not tell that from listening to him. her music sense was dulled. she got it from these outward signs. the woman next to her was reading a program absorbedly, turning the pages regularly, and with care. fanny could have killed her with her two hands. she tried to listen detachedly. the music was familiar to her. theodore had played it for her, again and again. the last movement had never failed to shake her emotionally. it was the glorious and triumphant cry of a people tried and unafraid. she heard it now, unmoved.

and then theodore was bowing his little jerky bows, and he was shaking hands with stock, and with the first violin. he was gone. fanny sat with her hands in her lap. the applause continued. theodore appeared again. bowed. he bent very low now, with his arms hanging straight. there was something gracious and courtly about him. and foreign. he must keep that, fanny thought. they like it. she saw him off again. more applause. encores were against the house rules. she knew that. then it meant they were pleased. he was to play again. a group of hungarian dances this time. they were wild, gypsy things, rising to frenzy at times. he played them with spirit and poetry. to listen sent the blood singing through the veins. fanny found herself thinking clearly and exaltedly.

“this is what my mother drudged for, and died for, and it was worth it. and you must do the same, if necessary. nothing else matters. what he needs now is luxury. he's worn out with fighting. ease. peace. leisure. you've got to give them to him. it's no use, fanny. you lose.”

in that moment she reached a mark in her spiritual career that she was to outdistance but once.

theodore was bowing again. fanny had scarcely realized that he had finished. the concert was over.

“... the group of dances,” the man behind her was saying as he helped the girl next him with her coat, “but i didn't like that first thing. church music, not concert.”

fanny found her way back to the ante-room. theodore was talking to the conductor, and one or two others. he looked tired, and his eyes found fanny's with appeal and relief in them. she came over to him. there were introductions, congratulations. fanny slipped her hand over his with a firm pressure.

“come, dear. you must be tired.”

at the door they found fenger waiting. theodore received his well-worded congratulations with an ill-concealed scowl.

“my car's waiting,” said fenger. “won't you let me take you home?”

a warning pressure from theodore. “thanks, no. we have a car. theodore's very tired.”

“i can quite believe that.”

“not tired,” growled theodore, like a great boy. “i'm hungry. starved. i never eat before playing.”

kurt stein, theodore's manager, had been hovering over him solicitously. “you must remember to-morrow night. i should advise you to rest now, as quickly as possible.” he, too, glared at fenger.

fenger fell back, almost humbly. “i've great news for you. i must see you sunday. after this is over. i'll telephone you. don't try to come to work to-morrow.” all this is a hurried aside to fanny.

fanny nodded and moved away with theodore.

theodore leaned back in the car, but there was no hint of relaxation. he was as tense and vibrant as one of his own violin strings.

“it went, didn't it? they're like clods, these american audiences.” it was on the tip of fanny's tongue to say that he had professed indifference to audiences, but she wisely refrained. “gad! i'm hungry. what makes this fenger hang around so? i'm going to tell him to keep away, some day. the way he stares at you. let's go somewhere to-night, fan. or have some people in. i can't sit about after i've played. olga always used to have a supper party, or something.”

“all right, ted. would you like the theater?”

for the first time in her life she felt a little whisper of sympathy for the despised olga. perhaps, after all, she had not been wholly to blame.

he was to leave sunday morning for cleveland, where he would play monday. he had insisted on taking mizzi with him, though fanny had railed and stormed. theodore had had his way.

“she's used to it. she likes to travel, don't you, mizzi? you should have seen her in russia, and all over germany, and in sweden. she's a better traveler than her dad.”

saturday morning's papers were kind, but cool. they used words such as promising, uneven, overambitious, gifted. theodore crumpled the lot into a ball and hurled them across the room, swearing horribly. then he smoothed them out, clipped them, and saved them carefully. his playing that night was tinged with bravado, and the saturday evening audience rose to it. there was about his performance a glow, a spirit that had been lacking on the previous day.

inconsistently enough, he missed the antagonism of the european critics. he was puzzled and resentful.

“they hardly say a word about the meaning of the concerto. they accept it as a piece of music, jewish in theme. it might as well be entitled springtime.”

“this isn't france or russia,” said fanny. “antagonism here isn't religious. it's personal, almost. you've been away so many years you've forgotten. they don't object to us as a sect, or a race, but as a type. that's the trouble, clarence heyl says. we're free to build as many synagogues as we like, and worship in them all day, if we want to. but we don't want to. the struggle isn't racial any more, but individual. for some reason or other one flashy, loud-talking hebrew in a restaurant can cause more ill feeling than ten thousand of them holding a religious mass meeting in union square.”

theodore pondered a moment. “then here each one of us is responsible. is that it?”

“i suppose so.”

“but look here. i've been here ten weeks, and i've met your friends, and not one of them is a jew. how's that?”

fanny flushed a little. “oh, it just worked out that way.”

theodore looked at her hard. “you mean you worked it out that way?”

“yes.”

“fan, we're a couple of weaklings, both of us, to have sprung from a mother like ours. i don't know which is worse; my selfishness, or yours.” then, at the hurt that showed in her face, he was all contrition. “forgive me, sis. you've been so wonderful to me, and to mizzi, and to all of us. i'm a good-for-nothing fiddler, that's all. you're the strong one.”

fenger had telephoned her on saturday. he and his wife were at their place in the country. fanny was to take the train out there sunday morning. she looked forward to it with a certain relief. the weather had turned unseasonably warm, as chicago octobers sometimes do. up to the last moment she had tried to shake theodore's determination to take mizzi and otti with him. but he was stubborn.

“i've got to have her,” he said.

michael fenger's voice over the telephone had been as vibrant with suppressed excitement as michael fenger's dry, hard tones could be.

“fanny, it's done—finished,” he said. “we had a meeting to-day. this is my last month with haynes-cooper.”

“but you can't mean it. why, you are haynes-cooper. how can they let you go?”

“i can't tell you now. we'll go over it all to-morrow. i've new plans. they've bought me out. d'you see? at a price that—well, i thought i'd got used to juggling millions at haynes-cooper. but this surprised even me. will you come? early? take the eight-ten.”

“that's too early. i'll get the ten.”

the mid-october country was a lovely thing. fanny, with the strain of theodore's debut and leave-taking behind her, and the prospect of a high-tension business talk with fenger ahead, drank in the beauty of the wayside woods gratefully.

fenger met her at the station. she had never seen him so boyish, so exuberant. he almost pranced.

“hop in,” he said. he had driven down in a runabout. “brother get off all right? gad! he can play. and you've made the whole thing possible.” he turned to look at her. “you're a wonder.”

“in your present frame of mind and state of being,” laughed fanny, “you'd consider any one a wonder. you're so pleased with yourself you're fairly gummy.”

fenger laughed softly and sped the car on. they turned in at the gate. there was scarlet salvia, now, to take the place of the red geraniums. the gay awnings, too, were gone.

“this is our last week,” fenger explained. “it's too cold out here for katherine. we're moving into town to-morrow. we're more or less camping out here, with only the jap to take care of us.”

“don't apologize, please. i'm grateful just to be here, after the week i've had. let's have the news now.”

“we'll have lunch first. i'm afraid you'll have to excuse katherine. she probably won't be down for lunch.” the jap had spread the luncheon table on the veranda, but a brisk lake breeze had sprung up, and he was busy now transferring his table from the porch to the dining room. “would you have believed it,” said fenger, “when you left town? good old lake. mrs. fenger coming down?” to the man.

the jap shook his head. “nossa.”

their talk at luncheon was all about theodore and his future. fenger said that what theodore needed was a firm and guiding hand. “a sort of combination manager and slave-driver. an ambitious and intelligent wife would do it. that's what we all need. a woman to work for, and to make us work.”

fanny smiled. “mizzi will have to be woman enough, i'm afraid. poor ted.”

they rose. “now for the talk,” said fenger. but the telephone had sounded shrilly a moment before, and the omnipresent little jap summoned fenger. he was back in a minute, frowning. “it's haynes. i'm sorry. i'm afraid it'll take a half hour of telephoning. don't you want to take a cat-nap? or a stroll down to the lake?”

“don't bother about me. i'll probably take a run outdoors.”

“be back in half an hour.”

but when she returned he was still at the telephone. she got a book and stretched luxuriously among the cushions of one of the great lounging chairs, and fell asleep. when she awoke fenger was seated opposite her. he was not reading. he was not smoking. he evidently had been sitting there, looking at her.

“oh, gracious! mouth open?”

“no.”

fanny fought down an impulse to look as cross as she felt. “what time? why didn't you wake me?” the house was very quiet. she patted her hair deftly, straightened her collar. “where's everybody? isn't mrs. fenger down yet?”

“no. don't you want to hear about my plans now?”

“of course i do. that's what i came for. i don't see why you didn't tell me hours ago. you're as slow in action as a chinese play. out with it.”

fenger got up and began to pace the floor, not excitedly, but with an air of repression. he looked very powerful and compelling, there in the low-ceilinged, luxurious room. “i'll make it brief. we met yesterday in haynes's office. of course we had discussed the thing before. you know that. haynes knew that i'd never run the plant under the new conditions. why, it would kill every efficiency rule i've ever made. here i had trimmed that enormous plant down to fighting weight. there wasn't a useless inch or ounce about the whole enormous billionaire bulk of it. and then to have haynes come along, with his burdensome notions, and his socialistic slop. they'd cripple any business, no matter how great a start it had. i told him all that. we didn't waste much time on argument, though. we knew we'd never get together. in half an hour we were talking terms. you know my contract and the amount of stock i hold. well, we threshed that out, and haynes is settling for two million and a half.”

he came to a stop before fanny's chair.

“two million and a half what?” asked fanny, feebly.

“dollars.” he smiled rather grimly. “in a check.”

“one—check?” “one check.”

fanny digested that in her orderly mind. “i thought i was used to thinking in millions. but this—i'd like to touch the check, just once.”

“you shall.” he drew up a chair near her. “now get this, fanny. there's nothing that you and i can't do with two millions and a half. nothing. we know this mail order game as no two people in the world know it. and it's in its infancy. i know the technical side of it. you know the human side of it. i tell you that in five years' time you and i can be a national power. not merely the heads of a prosperous mail order business, but figures in finance. see what's happened to haynes-cooper in the last five years! why, it's incredible. it's grotesque. and it's nothing to what you and i can do, working together. you know people, somehow. you've a genius for sensing their wants, or feelings, or emotions—i don't know just what it is. and i know facts. and we have two million and a half—i can make it nearly three millions—to start with. haynes, fifteen years ago, had a couple of hundred thousand. in five years we can make the haynes-cooper organization look as modern and competent as a cross-roads store. this isn't a dream. these are facts. you know how my mind works. like a cold chisel. i can see this whole country—and europe, too, after the war—god, yes!—stretched out before us like a patient before expert surgeons. you to attend to its heart, and i to its bones and ligaments. i can put you where no other woman has ever been. i've a hundred new plans this minute, and a hundred more waiting to be born. so have you. i tell you it's just a matter of buildings. of bricks and stone, and machinery and people to make the machinery go. once we get those—and it's only a matter of months—we can accomplish things i daren't even dream of. what was haynes-cooper fifteen years ago? what was the north american cloak and suit company? the peter johnston stores, of new york? wells-kayser? nothing. they didn't exist. and this year haynes-cooper is declaring a twenty-five per cent dividend. do you get what that means? but of course you do. that's the wonder of it. i never need explain things to you. you've a genius for understanding.”

fanny had been sitting back in her chair, crouching almost, her eyes fixed upon the man's face, so terrible in its earnestness and indomitable strength. when he stopped talking now, and stood looking down at her, she rose, too, her eyes still on his face. she was twisting the fingers of one hand in the fingers of the other, in a frightened sort of way.

“i'm not really a business woman. i—wait a minute, please—i have a knack of knowing what people are thinking and wanting. but that isn't business.” “it isn't, eh? it's the finest kind of business sense. it's the thing the bugs call psychology, and it's as necessary to-day as capital was yesterday. you can get along without the last. you can't without the first. one can be acquired. the other you've got to be born with.”

“but i—you know, of late, it's only the human side of it that has appealed to me. i don't know why. i seem to have lost interest in the actual mechanics of it.”

fenger stood looking at her, his head lowered. a scarlet stripe, that she had never noticed before, seemed to stand out suddenly, like a welt, on his forehead. then he came toward her. she raised her hand in a little futile gesture. she took an involuntary step backward, encountered the chair she had just left, and sank into it coweringly. she sat there, looking up at him, fascinated. his hand, on the wing of the great chair, was shaking. so, too, was his voice.

“fanny, katherine's not here.”

fanny still looked up at him, wordlessly.

“katherine left here yesterday. she's in town.” then, at the look in her face, “she was here when i telephoned you yesterday. late yesterday afternoon she had one of her fantastic notions. she insisted that she must go into town. it was too cold for her here. too damp. too—well, she went. and i let her go. and i didn't telephone you again. i wanted you to come.”

fanny brandeis, knowing him, must have felt a great qualm of terror and helplessness. but she was angry, too, a wholesome ingredient in a situation such as this. the thing she said and did now was inspired. she laughed—a little uncertainly, it is true—but still she laughed. and she said, in a matter-of-fact tone:

“well, i must say that's a rather shabby trick. still, i suppose the tired business man has got to have his little melodrama. what do i do? h'm? beat my breast and howl? or pound on the door panel?”

fenger stood looking at her. “don't laugh at me, fanny.”

she stood up, still smiling. it was rather a brilliant piece of work. fenger, taken out of himself though he was, still was artist enough to appreciate it.

“why not laugh,” she said, “if i'm amused? and i am. come now, mr. fenger. be serious. and let's get back to the billions. i want to catch the five-fifteen.”

“i am serious.” “well, if you expect me to play the hunted heroine, i'm sorry.” she pointed an accusing finger at him. “i know now. you're quitting haynes-cooper for the movies. and this is a rehearsal for a vampire film.”

“you nervy little devil, you!” he reached out with one great, irresistible hand and gripped her shoulder. “you wonderful, glorious girl!” the hand that gripped her shoulder swung her to him. she saw his face with veins she had never noticed before standing out, in knots, on his temples, and his eyes were fixed and queer. and he was talking, rather incoherently, and rapidly. he was saying the same thing over and over again: “i'm crazy about you. i've been looking for a woman like you—all my life. i'm crazy about you. i'm crazy——”

and then fanny's fine composure and self control fled, and she thought of her mother. she began to struggle, too, and to say, like any other girl, “let me go! let me go! you're hurting me. let me go! you! you!”

and then, quite clearly, from that part of her brain where it had been tucked away until she should need it, came clarence heyl's whimsical bit of advice. her mind released it now, complete.

“if you double your fist this way, and tuck your thumb alongside, like that, and aim for this spot right here, about two inches this side of the chin, bringing your arm back and up quickly, like a piston, the person you hit will go down, limp. there's a nerve right here that communicates with the brain. the blow makes you see stars, and bright lights——”

she went limp in his arms. she shut her eyes, flutteringly. “all men—like you—have a yellow streak,” she whispered, and opened her eyes, and looked up at him, smiling a little. he relaxed his hold, in surprise and relief. and with her eyes on that spot barely two inches to the side of the chin she brought her right arm down, slowly, slowly, fist doubled, and then up like a piston—snap! his teeth came together with a sharp little crack. his face, in that second, was a comic mask, surprised, stunned, almost idiotic. then he went down, as clarence heyl had predicted, limp. not with a crash, but slowly, crumpingly, so that he almost dragged her with him.

fanny stood looking down at him a moment. then she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. she walked out of the room, and down the hall. she saw the little jap dart suddenly back from a doorway, and she stamped her foot and said, “s-s-cat!” as if he had been a rat. she gathered up her hat and bag from the hall table, and so, out of the door, and down the walk, to the road. and then she began to run. she ran, and ran, and ran. it was a longish stretch to the pretty, vine-covered station. she seemed unconscious of fatigue, or distance. she must have been at least a half hour on the way. when she reached the station the ticket agent told her there was no train until six. so she waited, quietly. she put on her hat (she had carried it in her hand all the way) and patted her hair into place. when the train came she found a seat quite alone, and sank into its corner, and rested her head against her open palm. it was not until then that she felt a stab of pain. she looked at her hand, and saw that the skin of her knuckles was bruised and bleeding.

“well, if this,” she said to herself, “isn't the most idiotic thing that ever happened to a woman outside a near-novel.”

she looked at her knuckles, critically, as though the hand belonged to some one else. then she smiled. and even as she smiled a great lump came into her throat, and the bruise blurred before her eyes, and she was crying rackingly, relievedly, huddled there in her red plush corner.