before opening it. She always hesitated before opening
Theodore's letters. While she hesitated the old struggle
would rage in her.

"I don't owe him anything," the thing within her would say.
"God knows I don't. What have I done all my life but give,
and give, and give to him! I'm a woman. He's a man.
Let him work with his hands, as I do. He's had his share.
More than his share."

Nevertheless she had sent him one thousand of the six
thousand her mother had bequeathed to her. She didn't want
to do it. She fought doing it. But she did it.

Now, as she held this last letter in her hands, and stared
at the Bavarian stamp, she said to herself:

"He wants something. Money. If I send him some I can't
have that new tailor suit, or the furs. And I need them.
I'm going to have them."

She tore open the letter.

"Dear Old Fan:

"Olga and I are back in Munich, as you see. I think we'll
be here all winter, though Olga hates it. She says it isn't
lustig. Well, it isn't Vienna, but I think there's a
chance for a class here of American pupils. Munich's
swarming with Americans--whole families who come here to