convex upholstery of the chairs. She
tried them one after another, moving about the dimly lighted, musty
room, where the gas always leaked gently and sang in the burners. There
was no one in the parlor but the medical student, who was playing one of
Sousa's marches so vigorously that the china ornaments on the top of the
piano rattled. In a few moments some of the pension-office girls would
come in and begin to two-step. Thea wished that Ottenburg would come and
let her escape. She glanced at herself in the long, somber mirror. She
was wearing her pale-blue broadcloth church dress, which was not
unbecoming but was certainly too heavy to wear to anybody's house in the
evening. Her slippers were run over at the heel and she had not had time
to have them mended, and her white gloves were not so clean as they
should be. However, she knew that she would forget these annoying things
as soon as Ottenburg came.

Mary, the Hungarian chambermaid, came to the door, stood between the
plush portieres, beckoned to Thea, and made an inarticulate sound in her
throat. Thea jumped up and ran into the hall, where Ottenburg stood
smiling, his caped cloak open, his silk hat in his white-kid hand. The
Hungarian girl stood like a monument on her flat heels, staring at the
pink carnation in Ottenburg's coat. Her broad, pockmarked face wore the
only expression of which it was capable, a kind of animal wonder. As the
young man followed Thea out, he glanced back over his shoulder through
the crack of the door; the Hun clapped her hands over her stomach,
opened her mouth, and made another raucous sound in her throat.

"Isn't she awful?" Thea exclaimed. "I think she's half-witted. Can you
understand her?"

Ottenburg laughed as he helped her into the carriage. "Oh, yes; I can
understand her!" He settled himself on the front seat opposite Thea.
"Now, I want to tell you about the people we are going to see. We may
have a musical public in this country some day, but as yet there are
only the Germans and the Jews. All the other people go to hear Jessie
Darcey sing, 'O, Promise Me!' The Nathanmeyers are the finest kind of
Jews. If you do anything for Mrs. Henry Nathanmeyer, you must put
yourself into her hands. Whatever she says about music, about clothes,
about life, will be correct. And you may feel at ease with her. She
expects nothing of people; she has lived in Chicago twenty years. If you
were to behave like the Magyar who was so interested in m