for something closer. I spotted an aisle seat near the middle,
so I moved down and slid into it. I need not have rushed--it was
intermission, so I sat there for ten minutes contemplating. Soon, the
orchestra filed back in and the audience bustled around to reclaim
their seats. The conductor, the notorious Mr. Rossi, re-appeared on
stage, and the orchestra stood for him. I waited through the next
torturous work on the menu, hoping it would be over quickly. When it
ended, I clapped a couple of times and hoped the rest of the audience
didn't go wild.

When the applause died out, I found I was holding my breath. Then,
Jenny appeared in the wings, and strolled forward, her instrument
dangling easily from one hand. I could see her scan the crowd and
smile--she was really just looking for me. I felt like waving, but
that would have been gauche, so I kept my hands to myself. There she
was, her black skirt billowing from a waist and hips that resembled her
mother's gorgeous figure more each time I noticed it. Her starched
white blouse almost crackled. She had spent half an hour fussing over
it with the iron, then spent another half an hour getting every speck
of lint off her silk skirt. I noticed that her shoe-laces were untied,
as usual, and broke out in a smile. At that instant, she tripped over
the foot of a music stand--an intense foreboding chill shot through my
spine and flashed along every nerve in my body when I saw her sailing
headlong toward the floor. A gasp went up from the crowd, and the
applause stopped immediately.

Her reflexes, I must admit, were those of a well-bred cat, and her
instinct for self-preservation must never have been stronger: her
viola never hit the floor. The conductor, wheeling around when he
heard the clattering sound, stepped from his podium to assist her in
standing again. One of the violinists, whose improperly placed music
stand had done the damage, put down his violin to pick up the debris.
The conductor had a few words with Jenny, and then he escorted her off
the stage. She limped, and would put no weight on one leg. Rossi's
arm seemed to be practically fondling her chest and I felt a surge of
fatherly irritation. I was already on my feet when they started off,
and was trotting down the aisle toward the front of the auditorium.

"I'm her father," I shouted at the old ladies who tried to stop me from
ascending the side stairs. By then, some numbskull appeared from