That look of fragrant cleanliness was her chief charm.
Her clear, smooth skin contributed to it, and the natural penciling of
her eyebrows. But the thing that accented it, and gave it a last
touch, was the way in which her black hair came down in a little point
just in the center of her forehead, where hair meets brow. It grew to
form what is known as a cowlick. (A prettier name for it is widow's
peak.) Your eye lighted on it, pleased, and from it traveled its
gratified way down her white temples, past her little ears, to the
smooth black coil at the nape of her neck. It was a trip that rested
you.

At the end of the last performance on the night of his second visit to
the Bijou, Orville waited until the audience had begun to file out.
Then he leaned forward over the rail that separated orchestra from
audience.

"Could you," he said, his tones dulcet, "could you oblige me with the
name of that last piece you played?"

Terry was stacking her music. "George!" she called to the drum.
"Gentleman wants to know the name of that last piece." And prepared to
leave.

"'My Georgia Crackerjack,'" said the laconic drum.

Orville Platt took a hasty side step in the direction of the door
toward which Terry was headed. "It's a pretty thing," he said
fervently. "An awful pretty thing. Thanks. It's beautiful."

Terry flung a last insult at him over her shoulder: "Don't thank ME
for it. I didn't write it."

Orville Platt did not go across the street to the hotel. He wandered
up Cass Street, and into the ten-o'clock quiet of Main Street, and down
as far as the park and back. "Pretty as a pink! And play! ... And
good, too. Good."

A fat man in love.

At the end of six months they were married. Terry was surprised into
it. Not that she was not fond of him. She was; and grateful to him,
as well. For, pretty as she was, no man had ever before asked Terry to
be his wife. They had made love to her. They had paid court to her.
They had sent her large boxes of stale drugstore chocolates, and called
her endearing names as they made cautious declarations such as:

"I've known a lot of girls, but you've got something different. I don't
know. You've got so much sense. A fellow can chum around with you.
Little pal."

Wetona would be their home. They rented a comfortable, seven-room
house in a comfortable, middle-class neighborhood, and Terry dropped
the red velvet turbans and went in for picture hats. Orville