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. Nathanmeyer.

"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. Nathanmeyer 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 agreeable. "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 carriage, 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 when she was so hungry.
And Ottenburg WAS jolly! He made you want to come back at him. You
weren't always being caught up and mystified. When you started in with
him, you went; you cut the breeze, as Ray used to say. He had some go in
him.

Philip Frederick Ottenburg was the third son of the great brewer. His