plendent in
smartest of children's dresses provided for her lavishly by her aunt.
Her fat and dimpled hands smoothed the blue, or pink or white folds with
a complacency astonishing in one of her years. "That's her mother in
her," Fanny thought.

One rainy autumn day Fanny entered her brother's apartment to find Otti
resplendent in her Viennese nurse's costume. Mizzi had been cross and
fretful, and the sight of the familiar scarlet and black and white, and
the great winged cap seemed to soothe her.

"Otti!" Fanny exclaimed. "You gorgeous creature! What is it? A dress
rehearsal?" Otti got the import, if not the English.

"So gehen wir im Wien," she explained, and struck a killing pose.

"Everybody? All the nurses? Alle?"

"Aber sure," Otti displayed her half dozen English words whenever
possible.

Fanny stared a moment. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "To-morrow's
Saturday," she said, in German. "If it's fair and warm you put on that
costume and take Mizzi to the park.... Certainly the animal cages, if
you want to. If any one annoys you, come home. If a policeman asks you
why you are dressed that way tell him it is the costume worn by nurses
in Vienna. Give him your name. Tell him who your master is. If he
doesn't speak German--and he won't, in Chicago--some one will translate
for you."

Not a Sunday paper in Chicago that did not carry a startling picture of
the resplendent Otti and the dimpled and smiling Mizzi. The omnipresent
staff photographer seemed to sniff his victim from afar. He pounced on
Theodore Brandeis' baby daughter, accompanied by her Viennese nurse
(in costume) and he played her up in a Sunday special that was worth
thousands of dollars, Fanny assured the bewildered and resentful
Theodore, as he floundered wildly through the billowing waves of the
Sunday newspaper flood. Theodore's first appearance was to be in Chicago
as soloist with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, in the season's opening
program in October. Any music-wise Chicagoan will tell you that
the Chicago Symphony Orchestra is not only a musical organization
functioning marvelously (when playing Beethoven). It is an institution.
Its patrons will admit the existence, but not the superiority of
similar organizations in Boston, Philadelphia and New York. On Friday
afternoons, during the season, Orchestra Hall, situate on Michigan
Boulevard, holds more pretty girls and fewer men than one might expect
to see at any one gathering other than, p