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.
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