hroat, and the bruise blurred before her eyes, and she was
crying rackingly, relievedly, huddled there in her red plush corner.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It was eight o'clock when she let herself into her apartment. She had
given the maid a whole holiday. When Fanny had turned on the light in
her little hallway she stood there a moment, against the door, her hand
spread flat against the panel. It was almost as though she patted it,
lovingly, gratefully. Then she went on into the living room, and stood
looking at its rosy lamplight. Then, still as though seeing it all for
the first time, into her own quiet, cleanly bedroom, with its cream
enamel, and the chaise longue that she had had cushioned in rose because
it contrasted so becomingly with her black hair. And there, on her
dressing table, propped up against the brushes and bottles, was the
yellow oblong of a telegram. From Theodore of course. She opened it with
a rush of happiness. It was like a loving hand held out to her in need.
It was a day letter.

"We sail Monday on the St. Paul. Mizzi is with me. I broke my word to
you. But you lied to me about the letters. I found them the week
before the concert. I shall bring her back with me or stay to fight for
Germany. Forgive me, dear sister."

Just fifty words. His thrifty German training.

"No!" cried Fanny, aloud. "No! No!" And the cry quavered and died away,
and another took its place, and it, too, gave way to another, so that
she was moaning as she stood there with the telegram in her shaking
hand. She read it again, her lips moving, as old people sometimes read.
Then she began to whimper, with her closed fist over her mouth, her
whole body shaking. All her fine courage gone now; all her rigid
self-discipline; all her iron determination. She was not a tearful
woman. And she had wept much on the train. So the thing that
wrenched and shook her now was all the more horrible because of its
soundlessness. She walked up and down the room, pushing her hair back
from her forehead with the flat of her hand. From time to time she
smoothed out the crumpled yellow slip of paper and read it again. Her
mind, if you could have seen into it, would have presented a confused
and motley picture. Something like this: But his concert engagements?...
That was what had happened to Bauer.... How silly he had looked when her
fist met his jaw.... It had turned cold; why didn't they have steam on?
The middle of October.... Teddy, how co