"'Lo, Sis."
"Hello, Teddy. Kiss me. Phew! That pipe again. How'd the
work go to-day?"
"So--so. Any mail for me?"
"No."
That night, when he had gone, she took out the letter and
stood turning it over and over in her hands. She had no
thought of reading it. It was its destruction she was
contemplating. Finally she tucked it away in her
handkerchief box. Perhaps, after the fifteenth of October.
Everything depended on that.
And the fifteenth of October came. It had dragged for
weeks, and then, at the end, it galloped. By that time
Fanny had got used to seeing Theodore's picture and name
outside Orchestra Hall, and in the musical columns of the
papers. Brandeis. Theodore Brandeis, the violinist. The
name sang in her ears. When she walked on Michigan Avenue
during that last week she would force herself to march
straight on past Orchestra Hall, contenting herself with a
furtive and oblique glance at the announcement board. The
advance programs hung, a little bundle of them, suspended by
a string from a nail on the wall near the box office, so
that ticket purchasers might rip one off and peruse the
week's musical menu.
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