Theresa Platt (she had been Terry Sheehan) watched her husband across the breakfast table with eyes that smoldered.  But Orville Platt was quite unaware of any smoldering in progress.  He was occupied with his eggs.  How could he know that these very eggs were feeding the dull red menace in Terry Platt’s eyes?

When Orville Platt ate a soft-boiled egg he concentrated on it.  He treated it as a great adventure.  Which, after all, it is.  Few adjuncts of our daily life contain the element of chance that is to be found in a three-minute breakfast egg.

This was Orville Platt’s method of attack:  first, he chipped off the top, neatly.  Then he bent forward and subjected it to a passionate and relentless scrutiny.  Straightening ­preparatory to plunging his spoon therein ­he flapped his right elbow.  It wasn’t exactly a flap; it was a pass between a hitch and a flap, and presented external evidence of a mental state.  Orville Platt always gave that little preliminary jerk when he was contemplating a serious step, or when he was moved, or argumentative.  It was a trick as innocent as it was maddening.

Terry Platt had learned to look for that flap ­they had been married four years ­to look for it, and to hate it with a morbid, unreasoning hate.  That flap of the elbow was tearing Terry Platt’s nerves into raw, bleeding fragments.

Her fingers were clenched tightly under the table, now.  She was breathing unevenly.  “If he does that again,” she told herself, “if he flaps again when he opens the second egg, I’ll scream.  I’ll scream.  I’ll scream!  I’ll sc ­”

He had scooped the first egg into his cup.  Now he picked up the second, chipped it, concentrated, straightened, then ­up went the elbow, and down, with the accustomed little flap.

The tortured nerves snapped.  Through the early-morning quiet of Wetona, Wisconsin, hurtled the shrill, piercing shriek of Terry Platt’s hysteria.

“Terry!  For God’s sake!  What’s the matter!”

Orville Platt dropped the second egg, and his spoon.  The egg yolk trickled down his plate.  The spoon made a clatter and flung a gay spot of yellow on the cloth.  He started toward her.

Terry, wild-eyed, pointed a shaking finger at him.  She was laughing, now, uncontrollably.  “Your elbow!  Your elbow!”

“Elbow?” He looked down at it, bewildered, then up, fright in his face.  “What’s the matter with it?”

She mopped her eyes.  Sobs shook her.  “You f-f-flapped it.”

“F-f-f ­” The bewilderment in Orville Platt’s face gave way to anger.  “Do you mean to tell me that you screeched like that because my ­because I moved my elbow?”

“Yes.”

His anger deepened and reddened to fury.  He choked.  He had started from his chair with his napkin in his hand.  He still clutched it.  Now he crumpled it into a wad and hurled it to the center of the table, where it struck a sugar bowl, dropped back, and uncrumpled slowly, reprovingly.  “You ­you ­” Then bewilderment closed down again like a fog over his countenance.  “But why?  I can’t see ­”

“Because it ­because I can’t stand it any longer.  Flapping.  This is what you do.  Like this.”

And she did it.  Did it with insulting fidelity, being a clever mimic.

“Well, all I can say is you’re crazy, yelling like that, for nothing.”

“It isn’t nothing.”

“Isn’t, huh?  If that isn’t nothing, what is?” They were growing incoherent.  “What d’you mean, screeching like a maniac?  Like a wild woman?  The neighbors’ll think I’ve killed you.  What d’you mean, anyway!”

“I mean I’m tired of watching it, that’s what.  Sick and tired.”

“Y’are, huh?  Well, young lady, just let me tell you something ­”

He told her.  There followed one of those incredible quarrels, as sickening as they are human, which can take place only between two people who love each other; who love each other so well that each knows with cruel certainty the surest way to wound the other; and who stab, and tear, and claw at these vulnerable spots in exact proportion to their love.

Ugly words.  Bitter words.  Words that neither knew they knew flew between them like sparks between steel striking steel.

From him:  “Trouble with you is you haven’t got enough to do.  That’s the trouble with half you women.  Just lay around the house, rotting.  I’m a fool, slaving on the road to keep a good-for-nothing ­”

“I suppose you call sitting around hotel lobbies slaving!  I suppose the house runs itself!  How about my evenings?  Sitting here alone, night after night, when you’re on the road.”

Finally, “Well, if you don’t like it,” he snarled, and lifted his chair by the back and slammed it down, savagely, “if you don’t like it, why don’t you get out, hm?  Why don’t you get out?”

And from her, her eyes narrowed to two slits, her cheeks scarlet: 

“Why, thanks.  I guess I will.”

Ten minutes later he had flung out of the house to catch the 8:19 for Manitowoc.  He marched down the street, his shoulders swinging rhythmically to the weight of the burden he carried ­his black leather handbag and the shiny tan sample case, battle-scarred, both, from many encounters with ruthless porters and busmen and bellboys.  For four years, as he left for his semi-monthly trip, he and Terry had observed a certain little ceremony (as had the neighbors).  She would stand in the doorway, watching him down the street, the heavier sample case banging occasionally at his shin.  The depot was only three blocks away.  Terry watched him with fond but unillusioned eyes, which proves that she really loved him.  He was a dapper, well-dressed fat man, with a weakness for pronounced patterns in suitings, and addicted to derbies.  One week on the road, one week at home.  That was his routine.  The wholesale grocery trade liked Platt, and he had for his customers the fondness that a traveling salesman has who is successful in his territory.  Before his marriage to Terry Sheehan his little red address book had been overwhelming proof against the theory that nobody loves a fat man.

Terry, standing in the doorway, always knew that when he reached the corner just where Schroeder’s house threatened to hide him from view, he would stop, drop the sample case, wave his hand just once, pick up the sample case and go on, proceeding backward for a step or two until Schroeder’s house made good its threat.  It was a comic scene in the eyes of the onlooker, perhaps because a chubby Romeo offends the sense of fitness.  The neighbors, lurking behind their parlor curtains, had laughed at first.  But after a while they learned to look for that little scene, and to take it unto themselves, as if it were a personal thing.  Fifteen-year wives whose husbands had long since abandoned flowery farewells used to get a vicarious thrill out of it, and to eye Terry with a sort of envy.

This morning Orville Platt did not even falter when he reached Schroeder’s corner.  He marched straight on, looking steadily ahead, the heavy bags swinging from either hand.  Even if he had stopped ­though she knew he wouldn’t ­Terry Platt would not have seen him.  She remained seated at the disordered breakfast table, a dreadfully still figure, and sinister; a figure of stone and fire, of ice and flame.  Over and over in her mind she was milling the things she might have said to him, and had not.  She brewed a hundred vitriolic cruelties that she might have flung in his face.  She would concoct one biting brutality, and dismiss it for a second, and abandon that for a third.  She was too angry to cry ­a dangerous state in a woman.  She was what is known as cold mad, so that her mind was working clearly and with amazing swiftness, and yet as though it were a thing detached; a thing that was no part of her.

She sat thus for the better part of an hour, motionless except for one forefinger that was, quite unconsciously, tapping out a popular and cheap little air that she had been strumming at the piano the evening before, having bought it downtown that same afternoon.  It had struck Orville’s fancy, and she had played it over and over for him.  Her right forefinger was playing the entire tune, and something in the back of her head was following it accurately, though the separate thinking process was going on just the same.  Her eyes were bright, and wide, and hot.  Suddenly she became conscious of the musical antics of her finger.  She folded it in with its mates, so that her hand became a fist.  She stood up and stared down at the clutter of the breakfast table.  The egg ­that fateful second egg ­had congealed to a mottled mess of yellow and white.  The spoon lay on the cloth.  His coffee, only half consumed, showed tan with a cold gray film over it.  A slice of toast at the left of his plate seemed to grin at her with the semi-circular wedge that he had bitten out of it.

Terry stared down at these congealing remnants.  Then she laughed, a hard high little laugh, pushed a plate away contemptuously with her hand, and walked into the sitting room.  On the piano was the piece of music (Bennie Gottschalk’s great song hit, “Hicky Boola”) which she had been playing the night before.  She picked it up, tore it straight across, once, placed the pieces back to back, and tore it across again.  Then she dropped the pieces to the floor.

“You bet I’m going,” she said, as though concluding a train of thought.  “You just bet I’m going.  Right now!” And Terry went.  She went for much the same reason as that given by the ladye of high degree in the old English song ­she who had left her lord and bed and board to go with the raggle-taggle gipsies-O!  The thing that was sending Terry Platt away was much more than a conjugal quarrel precipitated by a soft-boiled egg and a flap of the arm.  It went so deep that it is necessary to delve back to the days when Theresa Platt was Terry Sheehan to get the real significance of it, and of the things she did after she went.

When Mrs. Orville Platt had been Terry Sheehan, she had played the piano, afternoons and evenings, in the orchestra of the Bijou Theater, on Cass Street, Wetona, Wisconsin.  Anyone with a name like Terry Sheehan would, perforce, do well anything she might set out to do.  There was nothing of genius in Terry, but there was something of fire, and much that was Irish.  Which meant that the Watson Team, Eccentric Song and Dance Artists, never needed a rehearsal when they played the Bijou.  Ruby Watson used merely to approach Terry before the Monday performance, sheet music in hand, and say, “Listen, dearie.  We’ve got some new business I want to wise you to.  Right here it goes ’tum dee-dee dum dee-dee tum dum dum.’  See?  Like that.  And then Jim vamps.  Get me?”

Terry, at the piano, would pucker her pretty brow a moment.  Then, “Like this, you mean?”

“That’s it!  You’ve got it.”

“All right.  I’ll tell the drum.”

She could play any tune by ear, once heard.  She got the spirit of a thing, and transmitted it.  When Terry played a martial number you tapped the floor with your foot, and unconsciously straightened your shoulders.  When she played a home-and-mother song you hoped that the man next to you didn’t know you were crying (which he probably didn’t, because he was weeping, too).

At that time motion pictures had not attained their present virulence.  Vaudeville, polite or otherwise, had not yet been crowded out by the ubiquitous film.  The Bijou offered entertainment of the cigar-box-tramp variety, interspersed with trick bicyclists, soubrettes in slightly soiled pink, trained seals, and Family Fours with lumpy legs who tossed each other about and struck Goldbergian attitudes.

Contact with these gave Terry Sheehan a semiprofessional tone.  The more conservative of her townspeople looked at her askance.  There never had been an evil thing about Terry, but Wetona considered her rather fly.  Terry’s hair was very black, and she had a fondness for those little, close-fitting scarlet turbans.  Terry’s mother had died when the girl was eight, and Terry’s father had been what is known as easygoing.  A good-natured, lovable, shiftless chap in the contracting business.  He drove around Wetona in a sagging, one-seated cart and never made any money because he did honest work and charged as little for it as men who did not.  His mortar stuck, and his bricks did not crumble, and his lumber did not crack.  Riches are not acquired in the contracting business in that way.  Ed Sheehan and his daughter were great friends.  When he died (she was nineteen) they say she screamed once, like a banshee, and dropped to the floor.

After they had straightened out the muddle of books in Ed Sheehan’s gritty, dusty little office Terry turned her piano-playing talent to practical account.  At twenty-one she was still playing at the Bijou, and into her face was creeping the first hint of that look of sophistication which comes from daily contact with the artificial world of the footlights.

There are, in a small Midwest town like Wetona, just two kinds of girls.  Those who go downtown Saturday nights, and those who don’t.  Terry, if she had not been busy with her job at the Bijou, would have come in the first group.  She craved excitement.  There was little chance to satisfy such craving in Wetona, but she managed to find certain means.  The traveling men from the Burke House just across the street used to drop in at the Bijou for an evening’s entertainment.  They usually sat well toward the front, and Terry’s expert playing, and the gloss of her black hair, and her piquant profile as she sometimes looked up toward the stage for a signal from one of the performers caught their fancy, and held it.

She found herself, at the end of a year or two, with a rather large acquaintance among these peripatetic gentlemen.  You occasionally saw one of them strolling home with her.  Sometimes she went driving with one of them of a Sunday afternoon.  And she rather enjoyed taking Sunday dinner at the Burke Hotel with a favored friend.  She thought those small-town hotel Sunday dinners the last word in elegance.  The roast course was always accompanied by an aqueous, semifrozen concoction which the bill of fare revealed as Roman Punch.  It added a royal touch to the repast, even when served with roast pork.

Terry was twenty-two when Orville Platt, making his initial Wisconsin trip for the wholesale grocery house he represented, first beheld her piquant Irish profile, and heard her deft manipulation of the keys.  Orville had the fat man’s sense of rhythm and love of music.  He had a buttery tenor voice, too, of which he was rather proud.

He spent three days in Wetona that first trip, and every evening saw him at the Bijou, first row, center.  He stayed through two shows each time, and before he had been there fifteen minutes Terry was conscious of him through the back of her head.  Orville Platt paid no more heed to the stage, and what was occurring thereon, than if it had not been.  He sat looking at Terry, and waggling his head in time to the music.  Not that Terry was a beauty.  But she was one of those immaculately clean types.  That look of fragrant cleanliness was her chief charm.  Her clear, smooth skin contributed to it, and the natural penciling of her eyebrows.  But the thing that accented it, and gave it a last touch, was the way in which her black hair came down in a little point just in the center of her forehead, where hair meets brow.  It grew to form what is known as a cowlick. (A prettier name for it is widow’s peak.) Your eye lighted on it, pleased, and from it traveled its gratified way down her white temples, past her little ears, to the smooth black coil at the nape of her neck.  It was a trip that rested you.

At the end of the last performance on the night of his second visit to the Bijou, Orville waited until the audience had begun 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 ever before asked Terry to be his wife.  They had made love to her.  They had paid court to her.  They had sent her large boxes of stale drugstore chocolates, and called her endearing names as they made cautious declarations such as: 

“I’ve known a lot of girls, but you’ve got something different.  I don’t know.  You’ve got so much sense.  A fellow can chum around with you.  Little pal.”

Wetona would be their home.  They rented a comfortable, seven-room house in a comfortable, middle-class neighborhood, and Terry dropped the red velvet turbans and went in for picture hats.  Orville bought her a piano whose tone was so good that to her ear, accustomed to the metallic discords of the Bijou instrument, it sounded out of tune.  She played a great deal at first, but unconsciously she missed the sharp spat of applause that used to follow her public performance.  She would play a piece, brilliantly, and then her hands would drop to her lap.  And the silence of her own sitting room would fall flat on her ears.  It was better on the evenings when Orville was home.  He sang, in his throaty, fat man’s tenor, to Terry’s expert accompaniment.

“This is better than playing for those ham actors, isn’t it, hon?” And he would pinch her ear.

“Sure” ­listlessly.

But after the first year she became accustomed to what she termed private life.  She joined an afternoon sewing club, and was active in the ladies’ branch of the U.C.T.  She developed a knack at cooking, too, and Orville, after a week or ten days of hotel fare in small Wisconsin towns, would come home to sea-foam biscuits, and real soup, and honest pies and cake.  Sometimes, in the midst of an appetizing meal he would lay down his knife and fork and lean back in his chair, and regard the cool and unruffled Terry with a sort of reverence in his eyes.  Then he would get up, and come around to the other side of the table, and tip her pretty face up to his.

“I’ll bet I’ll wake up, someday, and find out it’s all a dream.  You know this kind of thing doesn’t really happen ­not to a dub like me.”

One year; two; three; four.  Routine.  A little boredom.  Some impatience.  She began to find fault with the very things she had liked in him:  his superneatness; his fondness for dashing suit patterns; his throaty tenor; his worship of her.  And the flap.  Oh, above all, that flap!  That little, innocent, meaningless mannerism that made her tremble with nervousness.  She hated it so that she could not trust herself to speak of it to him.  That was the trouble.  Had she spoken of it, laughingly or in earnest, before it became an obsession with her, that hideous breakfast quarrel, with its taunts, and revilings, and open hate, might never have come to pass.

Terry Platt herself didn’t know what was the matter with her.  She would have denied that anything was wrong.  She didn’t even throw her hands above her head and shriek:  “I want to live!  I want to live!  I want to live!” like a lady in a play.  She only knew she was sick of sewing at the Wetona West End Red Cross shop; sick of marketing, of home comforts, of Orville, of the flap.

Orville, you may remember, left at 8:19.  The 11:23 bore Terry Chicago-ward.  She had left the house as it was ­beds unmade, rooms unswept, breakfast table uncleared.  She intended never to come back.

Now and then a picture of the chaos she had left behind would flash across her order-loving mind.  The spoon on the tablecloth.

Orville’s pajamas dangling over the bathroom chair.  The coffeepot on the gas stove.

“Pooh!  What do I care?”

In her pocketbook she had a tidy sum saved out of the housekeeping money.  She was naturally thrifty, and Orville had never been niggardly.  Her meals when Orville was on the road had been those sketchy, haphazard affairs with which women content themselves when their household is manless.  At noon she went into the dining car and ordered a flaunting little repast of chicken salad and asparagus and Neapolitan ice cream.  The men in the dining car eyed her speculatively and with appreciation.  Then their glance dropped to the third finger of her left hand, and wandered away.  She had meant to remove it.  In fact, she had taken it off and dropped it into her bag.  But her hand felt so queer, so unaccustomed, so naked, that she had found herself slipping the narrow band on again, and her thumb groped for it, gratefully.

It was almost five o’clock when she reached Chicago.  She felt no uncertainty or bewilderment.  She had been in Chicago three or four times since her marriage.  She went to a downtown hotel.  It was too late, she told herself, to look for a less expensive room that night.  When she had tidied herself she went out.  The things she did were the childish, aimless things that one does who finds herself in possession of sudden liberty.  She walked up State Street, and stared in the windows; came back, turned into Madison, passed a bright little shop in the window of which taffy-white and gold ­was being wound endlessly and fascinatingly about a double-jointed machine.  She went in and bought a sackful, and wandered on down the street, munching.

She had supper at one of those white-tiled sarcophagi that emblazon Chicago’s downtown side streets.  It had been her original intention to dine in state in the rose-and-gold dining room of her hotel.  She had even thought daringly of lobster.  But at the last moment she recoiled from the idea of dining alone in that wilderness of tables so obviously meant for two.

After her supper she went to a picture show.  She was amazed to find there, instead of the accustomed orchestra, a pipe organ that panted and throbbed and rumbled over lugubrious classics.  The picture was about a faithless wife.  Terry left in the middle of it.

She awoke next morning at seven, as usual, started up wildly, looked around, and dropped back.  Nothing to get up for.  The knowledge did not fill her with a rush of relief.  She would have her breakfast in bed.  She telephoned for it, languidly.  But when it came she got up and ate it from the table, after all.

That morning she found a fairly comfortable room, more within her means, on the North Side in the boardinghouse district.  She unpacked and hung up her clothes and drifted downtown again, idly.  It was noon when she came to the corner of State and Madison Streets.  It was a maelstrom that caught her up, and buffeted her about, and tossed her helplessly this way and that.

The thousands jostled Terry, and knocked her hat awry, and dug her with unheeding elbows, and stepped on her feet.

“Say, look here!” she said once futilely.  They did not stop to listen.  State and Madison has no time for Terrys from Wetona.  It goes its way, pell-mell.  If it saw Terry at all it saw her only as a prettyish person, in the wrong kind of suit and hat, with a bewildered, resentful look on her face.

Terry drifted on down the west side of State Street, with the hurrying crowd.  State and Monroe.  A sound came to Terry’s ears.

A sound familiar, beloved.  To her ear, harassed with the roar and crash, with the shrill scream of the whistle of the policeman at the crossing, with the hiss of feet shuffling on cement, it was a celestial strain.  She looked up, toward the sound.  A great second-story window opened wide to the street.  In it a girl at a piano, and a man, red-faced, singing through a megaphone.  And on a flaring red and green sign: 

     Bernie Gottschalk’s music house!

  Come in!  Hear Bernie Gottschalk’s latest hit! 
  The heart-throb song that has got ’em all! 
  The song that made the SQUAREHEADS crawl!

  “I come from Paris, Illinois, but oh!  You Paris, France! 
  I used to wear blue overalls but now it’s khaki pants.”

  Come in!  Come in!

Terry accepted.

She followed the sound of the music.  Around the corner.  Up a little flight of stairs.  She entered the realm of Euterpe; Euterpe with her hair frizzed; Euterpe with her flowing white robe replaced by soiled white shoes; Euterpe abandoning her flute for jazz.  She sat at the piano, a red-haired young lady whose familiarity with the piano had bred contempt.  Nothing else could have accounted for her treatment of it.  Her fingers, tipped with sharp-pointed and glistening nails, clawed the keys with a dreadful mechanical motion.  There were stacks of music sheets on counters and shelves and dangling from overhead wires.  The girl at the piano never ceased playing.  She played mostly by request.

A prospective purchaser would mumble something in the ear of one of the clerks.  The fat man with the megaphone would bawl out, “Hicky Boola, Miss Ryan!” And Miss Ryan would oblige.  She made a hideous rattle and crash and clatter of sound.

Terry joined the crowds about the counter.  The girl at the piano was not looking at the keys.  Her head was screwed around over her left shoulder and as she played she was holding forth animatedly to a girl friend who had evidently dropped in from some store or office during the lunch hour.  Now and again the fat man paused in his vocal efforts to reprimand her for her slackness.  She paid no heed.  There was something gruesome, uncanny, about the way her fingers went their own way over the defenseless keys.  Her conversation with the frowzy little girl went on.

“Wha’d he say?” (Over her shoulder.)

“Oh, he laffed.”

“Well, didja go?”

“Me!  Well, whutya think I yam, anyway?”

“I woulda took a chanst.”

The fat man rebelled.

“Look here!  Get busy!  What are you paid for?  Talkin’ or playin’?  Huh?”

The person at the piano, openly reproved thus before her friend, lifted her uninspired hands from the keys and spake.  When she had finished she rose.

“But you can’t leave now,” the megaphone man argued.  “Right in the rush hour.”

“I’m gone,” said the girl.  The fat man looked about, helplessly.  He gazed at the abandoned piano, as though it must go on of its own accord.  Then at the crowd.

“Where’s Miss Schwimmer?” he demanded of a clerk.

“Out to lunch.”

Terry pushed her way to the edge of the counter and leaned over.  “I can play for you,” she said.

The man looked at her.  “Sight?”

“Yes.”

“Come on.”

Terry went around to the other side of the counter, took off her hat and coat, rubbed her hands together briskly, sat down, and began to play.  The crowd edged closer.

It is a curious study, this noonday crowd that gathers to sate its music hunger on the scraps vouchsafed it by Bernie Gottschalk’s Music House.  Loose-lipped, slope-shouldered young men with bad complexions and slender hands.  Girls whose clothes are an unconscious satire on present-day fashions.  On their faces, as they listen to the music, is a look of peace and dreaming.  They stand about, smiling a wistful half smile.  The music seems to satisfy a something within them.  Faces dull, eyes lusterless, they listen in a sort of trance.

Terry played on.  She played as Terry Sheehan used to play.  She played as no music hack at Bernie Gottschalk’s had ever played before.  The crowd swayed a little to the sound of it.  Some kept time with little jerks of the shoulder ­the little hitching movement of the dancer whose blood is filled with the fever of syncopation.  Even the crowd flowing down State Street must have caught the rhythm of it, for the room soon filled.

At two o’clock the crowd began to thin.  Business would be slack, now, until five, when it would again pick up until closing time at six.  The fat vocalist put down his megaphone, wiped his forehead, and regarded Terry with a warm blue eye.  He had just finished singing “I’ve Wandered Far from Dear Old Mother’s Knee.” (Bernie Gottschalk Inc.  Chicago.  New York.  You can’t get bit with a Gottschalk hit. 15 cents each.)

“Girlie,” he said, emphatically, “you sure ­can ­play!” He came over to her at the piano and put a stubby hand on her shoulder.  “Yessir!  Those little fingers ­”

Terry just turned her head to look down her nose at the moist hand resting on her shoulder.  “Those little fingers are going to meet your face if you don’t move on.”

“Who gave you your job?” demanded the fat man.

“Nobody.  I picked it myself.  You can have it if you want it.”

“Can’t you take a joke?”

“Label yours.”

As the crowd dwindled she played less feverishly, but there was nothing slipshod about her performance.  The chubby songster found time to proffer brief explanations in asides.  “They want the patriotic stuff.  It used to be all that Hawaiian dope, and Wild Irish Rose stuff, and songs about wanting to go back to every place from Dixie to Duluth.  But now seems it’s all these here flag wavers.  Honestly, I’m so sick of ’em I got a notion to enlist to get away from it.”

Terry eyed him with withering briefness.  “A little training wouldn’t ruin your figure.”

She had never objected to Orville’s embonpoint.  But then, Orville was a different sort of fat man; pink-cheeked, springy, immaculate.

At four o’clock, as she was in the chorus of “Isn’t There Another Joan of Arc?” a melting masculine voice from the other side of the counter said “Pardon me.  What’s that you’re playing?”

Terry told him.  She did not look up.  “I wouldn’t have known it.  Played like that ­a second ‘Marseillaise.’  If the words ­What are the words?  Let me see a ­”

“Show the gentleman a ‘Joan,’” Terry commanded briefly, over her shoulder.  The fat man laughed a wheezy laugh.  Terry glanced around, still playing, and encountered the gaze of two melting masculine eyes that matched the melting masculine voice.  The songster waved a hand uniting Terry and the eyes in informal introduction.

“Mr. Leon Sammett, the gentleman who sings the Gottschalk songs wherever songs are heard.  And Mrs. ­that is ­and Mrs. Sammett ­”

Terry turned.  A sleek, swarthy world-old young man with the fashionable concave torso, and alarmingly convex bone-rimmed glasses.  Through them his darkly luminous gaze glowed upon Terry.  To escape their warmth she sent her own gaze past him to encounter the arctic stare of the large blonde who had been included so lamely in the introduction.  And at that the frigidity of that stare softened, melted, dissolved.

“Why, Terry Sheehan!  What in the world!”

Terry’s eyes bored beneath the layers of flabby fat.  “It’s ­why, it’s Ruby Watson, isn’t it?  Eccentric Song and Dance ­”

She glanced at the concave young man and faltered.  He was not Jim, of the Bijou days.  From him her eyes leaped back to the fur-bedecked splendor of the woman.  The plump face went so painfully red that the make-up stood out on it, a distinct layer, like thin ice covering flowing water.  As she surveyed that bulk Terry realized that while Ruby might still claim eccentricity, her song-and-dance days were over.  “That’s ancient history, m’ dear.  I haven’t been working for three years.  What’re you doing in this joint?  I’d heard you’d done well for yourself.  That you were married.”

“I am.  That is I ­well, I am.  I ­”

At that the dark young man leaned over and patted Terry’s hand that lay on the counter.  He smiled.  His own hand was incredibly slender, long, and tapering.

“That’s all right,” he assured her, and smiled.  “You two girls can have a reunion later.  What I want to know is can you play by ear?”

“Yes, but ­”

He leaned far over the counter.  “I knew it the minute I heard you play.  You’ve got the touch.  Now listen.  See if you can get this, and fake the bass.”

He fixed his somber and hypnotic eyes on Terry.  His mouth screwed up into a whistle.  The tune ­a tawdry but haunting little melody ­came through his lips.  Terry turned back to the piano.  “Of course you know you flatted every note,” she said.

This time it was the blonde who laughed, and the man who flushed.  Terry cocked her head just a little to one side, like a knowing bird, looked up into space beyond the piano top, and played the lilting little melody with charm and fidelity.  The dark young man followed her with a wagging of the head and little jerks of both outspread hands.  His expression was beatific, enraptured.  He hummed a little under his breath and anyone who was music-wise would have known that he was just a half beat behind her all the way.

When she had finished he sighed deeply, ecstatically.  He bent his lean frame over the counter and, despite his swart coloring, seemed to glitter upon her ­his eyes, his teeth, his very fingernails.

“Something led me here.  I never come up on Tuesdays.  But something ­”

“You was going to complain,” put in his lady, heavily, “about that Teddy Sykes at the Palace Gardens singing the same songs this week that you been boosting at the Inn.”

He put up a vibrant, peremptory hand.  “Bah!  What does that matter now!  What does anything matter now!  Listen Miss ­ah ­Miss ?”

“Pl ­Sheehan.  Terry Sheehan.”

He gazed off a moment into space.  “Hm.  ’Leon Sammett in Songs.  Miss Terry Sheehan at the Piano.’  That doesn’t sound bad.  Now listen, Miss Sheehan.  I’m singing down at the University Inn.  The Gottschalk song hits.  I guess you know my work.  But I want to talk to you, private.  It’s something to your interest.  I go on down at the Inn at six.  Will you come and have a little something with Ruby and me?  Now?”

“Now?” faltered Terry, somewhat helplessly.  Things seemed to be moving rather swiftly for her, accustomed as she was to the peaceful routine of the past four years.

“Get your hat.  It’s your life chance.  Wait till you see your name in two-foot electrics over the front of every big-time house in the country.  You’ve got music in you.  Tie to me and you’re made.”  He turned to the woman beside him.  “Isn’t that so, Rube?”

“Sure.  Look at me!” One would not have thought there could be so much subtle vindictiveness in a fat blonde.

Sammett whipped out a watch.  “Just three quarters of an hour.  Come on, girlie.”

His conversation had been conducted in an urgent undertone, with side glances at the fat man with the megaphone.  Terry approached him now.

“I’m leaving now,” she said.

“Oh, no, you’re not.  Six o’clock is your quitting time.”

In which he touched the Irish in Terry.  “Any time I quit is my quitting time.  She went in quest of hat and coat much as the girl had done whose place she had taken early in the day.  The fat man followed her, protesting.  Terry, putting on her hat, tried to ignore him.  But he laid one plump hand on her arm and kept it there, though she tried to shake him off.

“Now, listen to me.  That boy wouldn’t mind grinding his heel on your face if he thought it would bring him up a step.  I know’m.  See that walking stick he’s carrying?  Well, compared to the yellow stripe that’s in him, that cane is a Lead pencil.  He’s a song tout, that’s all he is.”  Then, more feverishly, as Terry tried to pull away:  “Wait a minute.  You’re a decent girl.  I want to ­Why, he can’t even sing a note without you give it to him first.  He can put a song over, yes.  But how?  By flashing that toothy grin of his and talking every word of it.  Don’t you ­”

But Terry freed herself with a final jerk and whipped around the counter.  The two, who had been talking together in an undertone, turned to welcome her.  “We’ve got a half-hour.  Come on.  It’s just over to Clark and up a block or so.”

The University Inn, that gloriously intercollegiate institution which welcomes any graduate of any school of experience, was situated in the basement, down a flight of stairs.  Into the unwonted quiet that reigns during the hour of low potentiality, between five and six, the three went, and seated themselves at a table in an obscure corner.  A waiter brought them things in little glasses, though no order had been given.  The woman who had been Ruby Watson was so silent as to be almost wordless.  But the man talked rapidly.  He talked well, too.  The same quality that enabled him, voiceless though he was, to boost a song to success was making his plea sound plausible in Terry’s ears now.

“I’ve got to go and make up in a few minutes.  So get this.  I’m not going to stick down in this basement eating house forever.  I’ve got too much talent.  If I only had a voice ­I mean a singing voice.  But I haven’t.  But then, neither had Georgie Cohan, and I can’t see that it wrecked his life any.  Now listen.  I’ve got a song.  It’s my own.  That bit you played for me up at Gottschalk’s is part of the chorus.  But it’s the words that’ll go big.  They’re great.  It’s an aviation song, see?  Airplane stuff.  They’re yelling that it’s the airyoplanes that’re going to win this war.  Well, I’ll help ’em.  This song is going to put the aviator where he belongs.  It’s going to be the big song of the war.  It’s going to make ‘Tipperary’ sound like a Moody and Sankey hymn.  It’s the ­”

Ruby lifted her heavy-lidded eyes and sent him a meaning look.  “Get down to business, Leon.  I’ll tell her how good you are while you’re making up.”

He shot her a malignant glance, but took her advice.  “Now what I’ve been looking for for years is somebody who has got the music knack to give me the accompaniment just a quarter of a jump ahead of my voice, see?  I can follow like a lamb, but I’ve got to have that feeler first.  It’s more than a knack.  It’s a gift.  And you’ve got it.  I know it when I see it.  I want to get away from this night-club thing.  There’s nothing in it for a man of my talent.  I’m gunning for bigger game.  But they won’t sign me without a tryout.  And when they hear my voice they ­ Well, if me and you work together we can fool ’em.  The song’s great.  And my make-up’s one of these aviation costumes to go with the song, see?  Pants tight in the knee and baggy on the hips.  And a coat with one of those full-skirt whaddyoucall-’ems ­”

 “Péplums,” put in Ruby, placidly.

“Sure.  And the girls’ll be wild about it.  And the words!” He began to sing, gratingly off key: 

  Put on your sky clothes,
  Put on your fly clothes,
  And take a trip with me. 
  We’ll sail so high
  Up in the sky
  We’ll drop a bomb from Mercury.

“Why, that’s awfully cute!” exclaimed Terry.  Until now her opinion of Mr. Sammett’s talents had not been on a level with his.

“Yeah, but wait till you hear the second verse.  That’s only part of the chorus.  You see, he’s supposed to be talking to a French girl.  He says: 

  ’I’ll parlez-vous in Francais plain
  You’ll answer, “Cher Americain,”
  We’ll both ...’”

The six-o’clock lights blazed up suddenly.  A sad-looking group of men trailed in and made for a corner where certain bulky, shapeless bundles were soon revealed as those glittering and tortuous instruments which go to make a jazz band.

“You better go, Lee.  The crowd comes in awful early now, with all these buyers in town.”

Both hands on the table, he half rose, reluctantly, still talking.  “I’ve got three other songs.  They make Gottschalk’s stuff look sick.  All I want’s a chance.  What I want you to do is accompaniment.  On the stage, see?  Grand piano.  And a swell set.  I haven’t quite made up my mind to it.  But a kind of an army camp room, see?  And maybe you dressed as Liberty.  Anyway, it’ll be new, and a knockout.  If only we can get away with the voice thing.  Say, if Eddie Foy, all those years never had a ­”

The band opened with a terrifying clash of cymbal and thump of drum.  “Back at the end of my first turn,” he said as he Red.  Terry followed his lithe, electric figure.  She turned to meet the heavy-lidded gaze of the woman seated opposite.  She relaxed, then, and sat back with a little sigh.  “Well!  If he talks that way to the managers I don’t see ­”

Ruby laughed a mirthless little laugh.  “Talk doesn’t get it over with the managers, honey.  You’ve got to deliver.”

“Well, but he’s ­that song is a good one.  I don’t say it’s as good as he thinks it is, but it’s good.”

“Yes,” admitted the woman, grudgingly, “it’s good.”

“Well, then?”

The woman beckoned a waiter; he nodded and vanished, and reappeared with a glass that was twin to the one she had just emptied.  “Does he look like he knew French?  Or could make a rhyme?”

“But didn’t he?  Doesn’t he?”

“The words were written by a little French girl who used to skate down here last winter, when the craze was on.  She was stuck on a Chicago kid who went over to fly for the French.”

“But the music?”

“There was a Russian girl who used to dance in the cabaret and she ­”

Terry’s head came up with a characteristic little jerk.  “I don’t believe it!”

“Better.”  She gazed at Terry with the drowsy look that was so different from the quick, clear glance of the Ruby Watson who used to dance so nimbly in the old Bijou days.  “What’d you and your husband quarrel about, Terry?”

Terry was furious to feel herself flushing.  “Oh, nothing.  He just ­I ­it was ­ Say, how did you know we’d quarreled?”

And suddenly all the fat woman’s apathy dropped from her like a garment and some of the old sparkle and animation illumined her heavy face.  She pushed her glass aside and leaned forward on her folded arms, so that her face was close to Terry’s.

“Terry Sheehan, I know you’ve quarreled, and I know just what it was about.  Oh, I don’t mean the very thing it was about; but the kind of thing.  I’m going to do something for you, Terry, that I wouldn’t take the trouble to do for most women.  But I guess I ain’t had all the softness knocked out of me yet, though it’s a wonder.  And I guess I remember too plain the decent kid you was in the old days.  What was the name of that little small-time house me and Jim used to play?  Bijou, that’s it; Bijou.”

The band struck up a new tune.  Leon Sammett ­slim, sleek, lithe in his evening clothes ­appeared with a little fair girl in pink chiffon.  The woman reached across the table and put one pudgy, jeweled hand on Terry’s arm.  “He’ll be through in ten minutes.  Now listen to me.  I left Jim four years ago, and there hasn’t been a minute since then, day or night, when I wouldn’t have crawled back to him on my hands and knees if I could.  But I couldn’t.  He wouldn’t have me now.  How could he?  How do I know you’ve quarreled?  I can see it in your eyes.  They look just the way mine have felt for four years, that’s how.  I met up with this boy, and there wasn’t anybody to do the turn for me that I’m trying to do for you.  Now get this.  I left Jim because when he ate corn on the cob he always closed his eyes and it drove me wild.  Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not laughing,” said Terry.

“Women are like that.  One night ­we was playing Fond du Lac; I remember just as plain ­we was eating supper before the show and Jim reached for one of those big yellow ears, and buttered and salted it, and me kind of hanging on to the edge of the table with my nails.  Seemed to me if he shut his eyes when he put his teeth into that ear of corn I’d scream.  And he did.  And I screamed.  And that’s all.”

Terry sat staring at her with a wide-eyed stare, like a sleepwalker.  Then she wet her lips slowly.  “But that’s almost the very ­”

“Kid, go on back home.  I don’t know whether it’s too late or not, but go anyway.  If you’ve lost him I suppose it ain’t any more than you deserve; but I hope to God you don’t get your deserts this time.  He’s almost through.  If he sees you going he can’t quit in the middle of his song to stop you.  He’ll know I put you wise, and he’ll prob’ly half kill me for it.  But it’s worth it.  You get.”

And Terry ­dazed, shaking, but grateful ­fled.  Down the noisy aisle, up the stairs, to the street.  Back to her rooming house.  Out again, with her suitcase, and into the right railroad station somehow, at last.  Not another Wetona train until midnight.  She shrank into a remote corner of the waiting room and there she huddled until midnight, watching the entrances like a child who is fearful of ghosts in the night.

The hands of the station clock seemed fixed and immovable.  The hour between eleven and twelve was endless.  She was on the train.  It was almost morning.  It was morning.  Dawn was breaking.  She was home!  She had the house key clutched tightly in her hand long before she turned Schroeder’s corner.  Suppose he had come home!  Suppose he had jumped a town and come home ahead of his schedule.  They had quarreled once before, and he had done that.

Up the front steps.  Into the house.  Not a sound.  She stood there a moment in the early-morning half-light.  She peered into the dining room.  The table, with its breakfast debris, was as she had left it.  In the kitchen the coffeepot stood on the gas stove.  She was home.  She was safe.  She ran up the stairs, got out of her clothes and into gingham morning things.  She flung open windows everywhere.  Downstairs once more she plunged into an orgy of cleaning.  Dishes, table, stove, floor, rugs.  She washed, scoured, swabbed, polished.  By eight o’clock she had done the work that would ordinarily have taken until noon.  The house was shining, orderly, and redolent of soapsuds.

During all this time she had been listening, listening, with her subconscious ear.  Listening for something she had refused to name definitely in her mind, but listening, just the same; waiting.

And then, at eight o’clock, it came.  The rattle of a key in the lock.  The boom of the front door.  Firm footsteps.

He did not go to meet her, and she did not go to meet him.  They came together and were in each other’s arms.  She was weeping.

“Now, now, old girl.  What’s there to cry about?  Don’t, honey; don’t.  It’s all right.”  She raised her head then, to look at him.  How fresh and rosy and big he seemed, after that little sallow restaurant rat.

“How did you get here?  How did you happen ?”

“Jumped all the way from Ashland.  Couldn’t get a sleeper, so I sat up all night.  I had to come back and square things with you, Terry.  My mind just wasn’t on my work.  I kept thinking how I’d talked ­how I’d talked ­”

“Oh, Orville, don’t!  I can’t bear ­ Have you had your breakfast?”

“Why, no.  The train was an hour late.  You know that Ashland train.”

But she was out of his arms and making for the kitchen.  “You go and clean up.  I’ll have hot biscuits and everything in no time.  You poor boy.  No breakfast!”

She made good her promise.  It could not have been more than half an hour later when he was buttering his third feathery, golden-brown biscuit.  But she had eaten nothing.  She watched him, and listened, and again her eyes were somber, but for a different reason.  He broke open his egg.  His elbow came up just a fraction of an inch.  Then he remembered, and flushed like a schoolboy, and brought it down again, carefully.  And at that she gave a tremulous cry, and rushed around the table to him.

“Oh, Orville!” She took the offending elbow in her two arms, and bent and kissed the rough coat sleeve.

“Why, Terry!  Don’t, honey.  Don’t!”

“Oh, Orville, listen ­”

“Yes.”

“Listen, Orville ­”

“I’m listening, Terry.”

“I’ve got something to tell you.  There’s something you’ve got to know.”

“Yes, I know it, Terry.  I knew you’d out with it, pretty soon, if I just waited.”

She lifted an amazed face from his shoulder then, and stared at him. 
“But how could you know?  You couldn’t!  How could you?”

He patted her shoulder then, gently.  “I can always tell.  When you have something on your mind you always take up a spoon of coffee, and look at it, and kind of joggle it back and forth in the spoon, and then dribble it back into the cup again, without once tasting it.  It used to get me nervous, when we were first married, watching you.  But now I know it just means you’re worried about something, and I wait, and pretty soon ­”

“Oh, Orville!” she cried then.  “Oh, Orville!”

“Now, Terry.  Just spill it, hon.  Just spill it to Daddy.  And you’ll feel better.”