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 Mrs. Loamford edged nearer the desk.

“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Maxwell,” she said, “but you’ve hit on something that’s been on my mind for a long time. I think that my daughter ought to appear as Dorothy Reitz. That’s her middle name— Reitz. It’s my maiden name. I think it’s a prettier name than Loamford for the concert stage, and Dorothy’s uncle, Mr. Elliott Reitz—you must know him; the famous hat man—is so well known that the name would arouse interest. I may be old-fashioned, too, but I think it preferable to have her sing as Dorothy Reitz. Don’t you think so, Mr. Maxwell?”

“I’m afraid that my jurisdiction doesn’t extend so far. If you prefer—I was only asking so that I could notify the hall management for whom to hold the auditorium.”

“Then hold it for Dorothy Reitz, please,” beamed Mrs. Loamford. “That'll make everything much easier for you, Dorothy.”

She turned solemnly to Maxwell.

“Besides,” she added, “my poor dear husband isn’t dead a year, and some people might think it curious daughter sang in public so soon after his death.”

“Very well,” assented Maxwell. “Dorothy Reitz it is—if Miss Loamford has no objections.”

For once, her mother seemed to be right. “Loamford” was a little—what? It didn’t sound like the name of a singer. Neither did “Reitz’”—but “Dorothy Reitz” had a more artistic ring to it. Dorothy was a bit vexed that she had not thought of it first.

“Now I’ll introduce you to Mr. Harper, my associate, who takes care of the recital itself. You can make all arrangements with him. He will see to your tickets, printing, advertising and so on.”