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mother's, which is the same thing--were keen when all
this was an Indian village. So merely be yourself, and you
will like her. She will like you because the Jews always
sense talent, and," he added ironically, "they admire cer-
tain qualities of feeling that are found only in the white-
skinned races."
Thea looked into the young man's face as the light of a
street lamp flashed into the carriage. His somewhat aca-
demic manner amused her.
"What makes you take such an interest in singers?"
she asked curiously. "You seem to have a perfect passion
for hearing music-lessons. I wish I could trade jobs with
you!"
"I'm not interested in singers." His tone was offended.
"I am interested in talent. There are only two interesting
things in the world, anyhow; and talent is one of them."
"What's the other?" The question came meekly from
the figure opposite him. Another arc-light flashed in at
the window.
Fred saw her face and broke into a laugh. "Why, you're
guying me, you little wretch! You won't let me behave
properly." He dropped his gloved hand lightly on her
knee, took it away and let it hang between his own. "Do
you know," he said confidentially, "I believe I'm more
in earnest about all this than you are."
"About all what?"
"All you've got in your throat there."
"Oh! I'm in earnest all right; only I never was much
good at talking. Jessie Darcey is the smooth talker. `You
notice the effect I get there--' If she only got 'em, she'd
be a wonder, you know!"
Mr. and Mrs. Nathanmeyer were alone in their great
library. Their three unmarried daughters had departed in
successive carriages, one to a dinner, one to a Nietszche
club, one to a ball given for the girls employed in the big
department stores. When Ottenburg and Thea entered,
Henry Nathanmeyer and his wife were sitting at a table
at the farther end of the long room, with a reading-lamp
and a tray of cigarettes and cordial-glasses between them.
The overhead lights were too soft to bring out the colors
of the big rugs, and none of the picture lights were on.
One could merely see that there were pictures there. Fred
whispered that they were Rousseaus and Corots, very fine
ones which the old banker had bought long ago for next to
nothing. In the hall Ottenburg had stopped Thea before a
painting of a woman eating grapes out of a paper bag, and
had told her gravely that there was the most beautiful
Manet in the world. He made her take off her hat and
gloves in the hall, and looked her over a little before he
took her in. But once they were in the library he seemed
perfectly satisfied with her and led her down the long room
to their hostess.
Mrs. Nathanmeyer was a heavy, powerful old Jewess,
with a great pompadour of white hair, a swarthy complex-
ion, an eagle nose, and sharp, glittering eyes. She wore a
black velvet dress with a long train, and a diamond necklace
and earrings. She took Thea to the other side of the table
and presented her to Mr. Nathanmeyer, who apologized
for not rising, pointing to a slippered foot on a cushion;
he said that he suffered from gout. He had a very soft
voice and spoke with an accent which would have been
heavy if it had not been so caressing. He kept Thea stand-
ing beside him for some time. He noticed that she stood
easily, looked straight down into his face, and was not
embarrassed. Even when Mrs. Nathanmeyer told Otten-
burg to bring a chair for Thea, the old man did not release
her hand, and she did not sit down. He admired her just
as she was, as she happened to be standing, and she felt it.
He was much handsomer than his wife, Thea thought. His
forehead was high, his hair soft and white, his skin pink, a
little puffy under his clear blue eyes. She noticed how warm
and delicate his hands were, pleasant to touch and beauti-
ful to look at. Ottenburg had told her that Mr. Nathan-
meyer had a very fine collection of medals and cameos,
and his fingers looked as if they had never touched any-
thing but delicately cut surfaces.
He asked Thea where Moonstone was; how many in-
habitants it had; what her father's business was; from what
part of Sweden her grandfather came; and whether she
spoke Swedish as a child. He was interested to hear that
her mother's mother was still living, and that her grand-
father had played the oboe. Thea felt at home standing
there beside him; she felt that he was very wise, and that he
some way took one's life up and looked it over kindly, as
if it were a story. She was sorry when they left him to
go into the music-room.
As they reached the door of the music-room, Mrs.
Nathanmeyer turned a switch that threw on many lights.
The room was even larger than the library, all glittering
surfaces, with two Steinway pianos.
Mrs. Nathanmeyer rang for her own maid. "Selma
will take you upstairs, Miss Kronborg, and you will find
some dresses on the bed. Try several of them, and take the
one you like best. Selma will help you. She has a great
deal of taste. When you are dressed, come down and let us
go over some of your songs with Mr. Ottenburg."
After Thea went away with the maid, Ottenburg came
up to Mrs. Nathanmeyer and stood beside her, resting his
hand on the high back of her chair.
"Well, GNADIGE FRAU, do you like her?"
"I think so. I liked her when she talked to father. She
will always get on better with men."
Ottenburg leaned over her chair. "Prophetess! Do you
see what I meant?"
"About her beauty? She has great possibilities, but you
can never tell about those Northern women. They look so
strong, but they are easily battered. The face falls so early
under those wide cheek-bones. A single idea--hate or
greed, or even love--can tear them to shreds. She is
nineteen? Well, in ten years she may have quite a regal
beauty, or she may have a heavy, discontented face, all
dug out in channels. That will depend upon the kind of
ideas she lives with."
"Or the kind of people?" Ottenburg suggested.
The old Jewess folded her arms over her massive chest,
drew back her shoulders, and looked up at the young man.
"With that hard glint in her eye? The people won't mat-
ter much, I fancy. They will come and go. She is very
much interested in herself--as she should be."
Ottenburg frowned. "Wait until you hear her sing. Her
eyes are different then. That gleam that comes in them
is curious, isn't it? As you say, it's impersonal."
The object of this discussion came in, smiling. She had
chosen neither the blue nor the yellow gown, but a pale
rose-color, with silver butterflies. Mrs. Nathanmeyer
lifted her lorgnette and studied her as she approached. She
caught the characteristic things at once: the free, strong
walk, the calm carriage of the head, the milky whiteness of
the girl's arms and shoulders.
"Yes, that color is good for you," she said approvingly.
"The yellow one probably killed your hair? Yes; this
does very well indeed, so we need think no more about
it."
Thea glanced questioningly at Ottenburg. He smiled
and bowed, seemed perfectly satisfied. He asked her to
stand in the elbow of the piano, in front of him, instead of
behind him as she had been taught to do.
"Yes," said the hostess with feeling. "That other posi-
tion is barbarous."
Thea sang an aria from `Gioconda,' some songs by Schu-
mann which she had studied with Harsanyi, and the "TAK
FOR DIT ROD," which Ottenburg liked.
"That you must do again," he declared when they fin-
ished this song. "You did it much better the other day.
You accented it more, like a dance or a galop. How did
you do it?"
Thea laughed, glancing sidewise at Mrs. Nathanmeyer.
"You want it rough-house, do you? Bowers likes me to sing
it more seriously, but it always makes me think about a
story my grandmother used to tell."
Fred pointed to the chair behind her. "Won't you rest
a moment and tell us about it? I thought you had some
notion about it when you first sang it for me."
Thea sat down. "In Norway my grandmother knew a
girl who was awfully in love with a young fellow. She
went into service on a big dairy farm to make enough
money for her outfit. They were married at Christmas-
time, and everybody was glad, because they'd been sigh-
ing around about each other for so long. That very sum-
mer, the day before St. John's Day, her husband caught
her carrying on with another farm-hand. The next night
all the farm people had a bonfire and a big dance up on
the mountain, and everybody was dancing and singing. I
guess they were all a little drunk, for they got to seeing
how near they could make the girls dance to the edge
of the cliff. Ole--he was the girl's husband--seemed the
jolliest and the drunkest of anybody. He danced his wife
nearer and nearer the edge of the rock, and his wife began
to scream so that the others stopped dancing and the
music stopped; but Ole went right on singing, and he
danced her over the edge of the cliff and they fell hundreds
of feet and were all smashed to pieces."
Ottenburg turned back to the piano. "That's the idea!
Now, come Miss Thea. Let it go!"
Thea took her place. She laughed and drew herself up
out of her corsets, threw her shoulders high and let them
drop again. She had never sung in a low dress before, and
she found it comfortable. Ottenburg jerked his head and
they began the song. The accompaniment sounded more
than ever like the thumping and scraping of heavy feet.
When they stopped, they heard a sympathetic tapping
at the end of the room. Old Mr. Nathanmeyer had come
to the door and was sitting back in the shadow, just inside
the library, applauding with his cane. Thea threw him a
bright smile. He continued to sit there, his slippered foot
on a low chair, his cane between his fingers, and she
glanced at him from time to time. The doorway made a
frame for him, and he looked like a man in a picture, with
the long, shadowy room behind him.
Mrs. Nathanmeyer summoned the maid again. "Selma
will pack that gown in a box for you, and you can take it
home in Mr. Ottenburg's carriage."
Thea turned to follow the maid, but hesitated. "Shall
I wear gloves?" she asked, turning again to Mrs. Nathan-
meyer.
"No, I think not. Your arms are good, and you will feel
freer without. You will need light slippers, pink--or
white, if you have them, will do quite as well."
Thea went upstairs with the maid and Mrs. Nathan-
meyer rose, took Ottenburg's arm, and walked toward her
husband. "That's the first real voice I have heard in
Chicago," she said decidedly. "I don't count that stupid
Priest woman. What do you say, father?"
Mr. Nathanmeyer shook his white head and smiled
softly, as if he were thinking about something very agree-
able. "SVENSK SOMMAR," he murmured. "She is like a
Swedish summer. I spent nearly a year there when I was
a young man," he explained to Ottenburg.
When Ottenburg got Thea and her big box into the car-
riage, it occurred to him that she must be hungry, after
singing so much. When he asked her, she admitted that
she was very hungry, indeed.
He took out his watch. "Would you mind stopping
somewhere with me? It's only eleven."
"Mind? Of course, I wouldn't mind. I wasn't brought
up like that. I can take care of myself."
Ottenburg laughed. "And I can take care of myself, so
we can do lots of jolly things together." He opened the
carriage door and spoke to the driver. "I'm stuck on the
way you sing that Grieg song," he declared.
When Thea got into bed that night she told herself that
this was the happiest evening she had had in Chicago. She
had enjoyed the Nathanmeyers and their grand house, her
new dress, and Ottenburg, her first real carriage ride, and
the good supper w...
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