THE SONG OF THE LARK
When they stopped, they heard a sympathetic tapping at the end of the room. Old Mr. Nathanmeyer had come to the door and was sitting back in the shadow, just inside the library, applauding with his cane. Thea threw him a bright smile. He continued to sit there, his slippered foot on a low chair, his cane between his fingers, and she glanced at him from time to time. The doorway made a frame for him, and he looked like a man in a picture, with the long, shadowy room behind him.
Mrs. Nathanmeyer summoned the maid again. "Selma will pack that gown in a box for you, and you can take it home in Mr. Ottenburg's carriage."
Thea turned to follow the maid; but hesitated. "Shall I wear gloves?" she asked, turning again to Mrs. Nathanmeyer.
"No, I think not. Your arms are good, and you will feel freer without. You will need light slippers, pink—or white, if you have them, will do quite as well."
Thea went upstairs with the maid and Mrs. Nathanmeyer rose, took Ottenburg's arm, and walked toward her husband. "That 's the first real voice I have heard in Chicago," she said decidedly. "I don't count that stupid Priest woman. What do you say, father?"
Mr. Nathanmeyer shook his white head and smiled softly, as if he were thinking about something very agreeable. "Svensk sommar" he murmured. "She is like a Swedish summer. I spent nearly a year there when I was a young man," he explained to Ottenburg.
When Ottenburg got Thea and her big box into the carriage, it occurred to him that she must be hungry, after singing so much. When he asked her, she admitted that she was very hungry, indeed.
He took out his watch. "Would you mind stopping somewhere with me? It 's only eleven."
"Mind? Of course, I would n't mind. I was n't brought up like that. I can take care of myself."
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