She sang her way straight into the heart of that audience with her
opening number. This was on Wednesday. Friday she sang again, and
Saturday afternoon.
When she came back to her room after that last concert, wearied with the
effort of listening to chattering women and playing the gracious lady to
an admiring contingent which insisted upon making her last appearance a
social triumph, she found a letter forwarded from Seattle. She slit the
envelope. A typewritten sheet enfolded a green slip,--a check. She
looked at the figures, scarcely comprehending until she read the letter.
"We take pleasure in handing you herewith," Mr. Lander wrote for the
firm, "our check for nineteen thousand five hundred dollars,
proceeds of oil stock sold as per your telegraphed instructions,
less brokerage charges. We sold same at par, and trust this will be
satisfactory."
She looked at the check again. Nineteen thousand, five hundred--payable
to her order. Two years ago such a sum would have lifted her to
plutocratic heights, filled her with pleasurable excitement, innumerable
anticipations. Now it stirred her less than the three hundred dollars
she had just received from the Granada Concert committee. She had earned
that, had given for it due measure of herself. This other had come
without effort, without expectation. And less than she had ever needed
money before did she now require such a sum.
Yet she was sensibly aware that this windfall meant a short cut to
things which she had only looked to attain by plodding over economic
hills.
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