"I'm glad you're not."

Not a very thrilling conversation for those of you who are
seeking heartthrobs.

In May Fanny made her first trip to Europe for the firm. It
was a sudden plan. Instantly Theodore leaped to her mind
and she was startled at the tumult she felt at the thought
of seeing him and his child. The baby, a girl, was more
than a year old. Her business, a matter of two weeks,
perhaps, was all in Berlin and Paris, but she cabled
Theodore that she would come to them in Munich, if only for
a day or two. She had very little curiosity about the woman
Theodore had married. The memory of that first photograph
of hers, befrizzed, bejeweled, and asmirk, had never effaced
itself. It had stamped her indelibly in Fanny's mind.

The day before she left for New York (she sailed from there)
she had a letter from Theodore. It was evident at once that
he had not received her cable. He was in Russia, giving a
series of concerts. Olga and the baby were with him. He
would be back in Munich in June. There was some talk of
America. When Fanny realized that she was not to see him
she experienced a strange feeling that was a mixture of
regret and relief. All the family love in her, a
racial trait, had been stirred at the thought of again
seeing that dear blond brother, the self-centered, willful,
gifted boy who had held the little congregation rapt, there
in the Jewish house of worship in Winnebago. But she had
recoiled a little from the meeting with this other unknown