"My dear, you look a sight; you must be dreadfully tired. Never mind, some tea'll freshen you up famously.... But it's all fixed about our tour." "You mean the orchestra?" "Of course, Nancibel. We open next Monday in Montreal." "It'll be dreadfully cold up there, I should think." "But think, dearest, how wonderful! I've never traveled in my life before. We'll go all the way out to the Coast, San Francisco and all that." "Fitzie, before you go we mustn't forget to call on Mabel Worthington. I'm very curious to meet her." "O, we will, but let's get a table before they are all snapped up. I'm perishing." The waitress had pretty brown eyes. She can't be more than eighteen, thought Nan as they sat down. Eleven years younger than I am. What happens in eleven years! Nothing. Everything. A mere kid Wenny would have been eleven years ago, inky-fingered curlypated schoolboy. "And how's your aunt?" Fitzie was asking. "I'm rather worried about her ... Poor Aunt M. hasn't been a bit well this last month. I've been trying to get her to go south." "I should think Florida 'ld be just the thing." "She's afraid she'd be lonely." "Why don't you go with her?" "But my music, Fitzie! I can't afford to lose a whole winter at this stage of the game, and Salinski's promised me some extra hours." "O, I see." Nan frowned. "You don't mean you think I ought to give up everything and go, do you?" "Of course not, but the conflict between one's love for one's family and one's wanting a career is sometimes dreadful, positively dreadful ... Of course, it's none of my business and I shan't say anything one way or the other." "But what tommyrot ... You know perfectly well how I feel about my career." "Of course, dear, of course," said Fitzie nibbling at a piece of toast. "You'll be interested in what Mabel has to say about that. She's made more of a career than any of the girls in our time at the Conservatory." "I don't mean quite that by career," said Nan laughing. "Of course not, you are much too wellbred, dearest ... But could you go tomorrow?" "Not tomorrow ... But, how about Saturday?" Nan gulped down a cup of weak milky tea with relief. The chatter at the tables round about and the smothered selection from the Arcadians out of the victrola in the corner of the tearoom sucked all the remaining energy out of her so that she sat limp, staring at her friend's new red hat. Utterly ridiculous, like a redbird, she was thinking. "Why not tomorrow?" insisted Fitzie. "I shall be dreadfully busy Saturday. It'll be my last useful day. We leave Sunday night. Isn't it too wonderful! Think of the places I'll see and the people I'll meet and everything ... Of course it'll be exhausting too." "I almost wish I were going with you." "But you can't have engagements all day tomorrow, Nancibel." "I'm going to stay in the house tomorrow."