to file out. Then he leaned forward over the rail that separated
orchestra from audience.

"Could you," he said, his tones dulcet, "could you oblige me
with the name of that last piece you played?"

Terry was stacking her music. "George!" she called to the
drum. "Gentleman wants to know the name of that last piece."
And prepared to leave.

"`My Georgia Crackerjack,'" said the laconic drum.

Orville Platt took a hasty side step in the direction of the door
toward which Terry was headed. "It's a pretty thing," he said
fervently. "An awful pretty thing. Thanks. It's beautiful."


Terry flung a last insult at him over her shoulder: "Don't
thank ME for it. I didn't write it."

Orville Platt did not go across the street to the hotel. He
wandered up Cass Street, and into the ten-o'clock quiet of Main
Street, and down as far as the park and back. "Pretty as a
pink! And play! . . . And good, too. Good."

A fat man in love.

At the end of six months they were married. Terry was surprised
into it. Not that she was not fond of him. She was; and
grateful to him, as well. For, pretty as she was, no man had