"Mortal slow, dearie, but don't say I told you!" the other answered in a stage whisper from above, and the music dashed into a two-step.
"Behold El Cap-i-tan!"
It haunted Susan's dreams for nights, that tune—it seemed impossible that the dancers' hearts should not ache as hers did. She lingered, fascinated, while the violins sang it over and over, and over again at the storm of clapping that followed it.
"Behold El Cap-i-tan!"
It was a hideous, cruel tune, light and utterly careless, and yet with that little sadness in it that some sensitive ears find always in good dance music—is it because dancing must so obviously end so soon?—and Susan has loathed it all her life. Indeed, at a recent luncheon given in her honor by the alumnæ of New York, she requested that the orchestra stop playing it after the first few bars—these people of genius are so delightfully eccentric!
She left college as quietly as she had entered it; there is no doubt that they would have made her Ivy Orator, had she stayed. The mail that took the notice of her lodging-house to her family crossed one of Sue's to her Uncle Bradford, of the well-known Boston publishing firm. Among other things she said:
I'm glad you like her so well—I knew you would. She's really much better for the place than Con. And I'm sure it was better to write to her directly—she doesn't like any of us very well, except Neal and Biscuits, and I have an idea she really almost dislikes me. I knew that when you saw that essay on the French and English as short-story writers, you'd want to give her the chance. And she was the very girl to leave college, too—it isn't everybody would be so glad to go just before senior year. Not but what I would, fast enough, if I had her future before me—Mon dieu! she's the only girl I ever thought I'd rather be—you should see the poem she left with Neal for the "Monthly"! She turns them off over night, apparently. It's a loss to the class, of course, but everybody is very glad for her—she always seemed so out of place up here, somehow. If one doesn't care for the little footless stunts, it must be a terrible bore, I should think. And when she's famous we can pat each other on the back and say we done it—partly. With a great deal of love for you and Aunt Julia,
Sue.
THE SEVENTH STORY