"And I chose it. Deliberately. I had black
ones, and blue ones, and green ones. And I chose--this."
He covered his face with a shaking hand.
Fanny Brandeis leaned back in her chair, and laughed, and
laughed, and laughed. Surely she hadn't laughed like that
in a year at least.
"You're a madman," she said, finally.
At that Heyl looked up with his singularly winning smile.
"But different. Concede that, Fanny. Be fair, now.
Refreshingly different."
"Different," said Fanny, "doesn't begin to cover it. Well,
now you're here, tell me what you're doing here."
"Seeing you."
"I mean here, in Chicago."
"So do I. I'm on my way from Winnebago to New York, and I'm
in Chicago to see Fanny Brandeis."
"Don't expect me to believe that."
Heyl put an arm on Fanny's desk and learned forward, his
face very earnest. "I do expect you to believe it. I
expect you to believe everything I say to you. Not only
that, I expect you not to be surprised at anything I say.
I've done such a mass of private thinking about you in the
last ten years that I'm likely to forget I've scarcely seen
you in that time.
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