aye soloist. Theodore's
playing was, as a whole, perhaps the worst of his career. Not that he
did not rise to magnificent heights at times. But it was what is known
as uneven playing. He was torn emotionally, nervously, mentally. His
playing showed it.

Fanny, seated in the auditorium, her hands clasped tight, her heart
hammering, had a sense of unreality as she waited for Theodore to appear
from the little door at the left. He was to play after the intermission.
Fanny had arrived late, with Theodore, that Friday afternoon. She felt
she could not sit through the first part of the program. They waited
together in the anteroom. Theodore, looking very slim and boyish in his
frock coat, walked up and down, up and down. Fanny wanted to straighten
his tie. She wanted to pick an imaginary thread off his lapel. She
wanted to adjust the white flower in his buttonhole (he jerked it out
presently, because it interfered with his violin, he said). She wanted
to do any one of the foolish, futile things that would have served to
relieve her own surcharged feelings. But she had learned control in
these years. And she yielded to none of them.

The things they said and did were, perhaps, almost ludicrous.

"How do I look?" Theodore demanded, and stood up before her.

"Beautiful!" said Fanny, and meant it.

Theodore passed a hand over his cheek. "Cut myself shaving, damn it!"

"It doesn't show."

He resumed his pacing. Now and then he stopped, and rubbed his hands
together with a motion we use in washing. Finally:

"I wish you'd go out front," he said, almost pettishly. Fanny rose,
without a word. She looked very handsome. Excitement had given her
color. The pupils of her eyes were dilated and they shone brilliantly.
She looked at her brother. He stared at her. They swayed together. They
kissed, and clung together for a long moment. Then Fanny turned and
walked swiftly away, and stumbled a little as she groped for the
stairway.

The bell in the foyer rang. The audience strolled to the auditorium.
They lagged, Fanny thought. They crawled. She told herself that she must
not allow her nerves to tease her like that. She looked about her, with
outward calm. Her eyes met Fenger's. He was seated, alone. It was he
who had got a subscription seat for her from a friend. She had said she
preferred to be alone. She looked at him now and he at her, and they did
not nod nor smile. The house settled itself flutteringly.

A man behind Fanny s