As they reached the door of the music-room, Mrs. Nathanmeyer turned a
switch that threw on many lights. The room was even larger than the
library, all glittering surfaces, with two Steinway pianos.

Mrs. Nathanmeyer rang for her own maid. "Selma will take you upstairs,
Miss Kronborg, and you will find some dresses on the bed. Try several of
them, and take the one you like best. Selma will help you. She has a
great deal of taste. When you are dressed, come down and let us go over
some of your songs with Mr. Ottenburg."

After Thea went away with the maid, Ottenburg came up to Mrs.
Nathanmeyer and stood beside her, resting his hand on the high back of
her chair.

"Well, GNADIGE FRAU, do you like her?"

"I think so. I liked her when she talked to father. She will always get
on better with men."

Ottenburg leaned over her chair. "Prophetess! Do you see what I meant?"

"About her beauty? She has great possibilities, but you can never tell
about those Northern women. They look so strong, but they are easily
battered. The face falls so early under those wide cheek-bones. A single
idea--hate or greed, or even love--can tear them to shreds. She is
nineteen? Well, in ten years she may have quite a regal beauty, or she
may have a heavy, discontented face, all dug out in channels. That will
depend upon the kind of ideas she lives with."

"Or the kind of people?" Ottenburg suggested.

The old Jewess folded her arms over her massive chest, drew back her
shoulders, and looked up at the young man. "With that hard glint in her
eye? The people won't matter much, I fancy. They will come and go. She
is very much interested in herself--as she should be."

Ottenburg frowned. "Wait until you hear her sing. Her eyes are different
then. That gleam that comes in them is curious, isn't it? As you say,
it's impersonal."

The object of this discussion came in, smiling. She had chosen neither
the blue nor the yellow gown, but a pale rose-color, with silver
butterflies. Mrs. Nathanmeyer lifted her lorgnette and studied her as
she approached. She caught the characteristic things at once: the free,
strong walk, the calm carriage of the head, the milky whiteness of the
girl's arms and shoulders.

"Yes, that color is good for you," she said approvingly. "The yellow one
probably killed your hair? Yes; this does very well indeed, so we need
think no more about it."

Thea glanced questioningly at Ottenburg. He smiled and bowed, seemed
per