y buttonhole,
she would not be surprised. If you were to sing like Jessie Darcey, she
would not be surprised; but she would manage not to hear you again."

"Would she? Well, that's the kind of people I want to find." Thea felt
herself growing bolder.

"You will be all right with her so long as you do not try to be anything
that you are not. Her standards have nothing to do with Chicago. Her
perceptions--or her grandmother'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 certain 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 academic 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