When he heard her voice over the telephone Heyl did not say,
"Who is this?" Neither did he put those inevitable
questions of the dweller to the transient, "Where are you?
How long have you been here?" What he said was, "How're you
going to avoid dining with me to-night?"
To which Fanny replied, promptly, "By taking the Twentieth
Century back to Chicago to-day."
A little silence. A hurt silence. Then, "When they get the
Twentieth Century habit they're as good as lost. How's the
infants' wear business, Fanny?"
"Booming, thank you. I want to tell you I've read the
column every day. It's wonderful stuff."
"It's a wonderful job. I'm a lucky boy. I'm doing the
thing I'd rather do than anything else in the world. There
are mighty few who can say that." There was another
silence, awkward, heavy. Then, "Fanny, you're not really
leaving to-day?"
"I'll be in Chicago to-morrow, barring wrecks."
"You might have let me show you our more or less fair city."
"I've shown it to myself. I've seen Riverside Drive at
sunset, and at night.
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