u? And I wish I didn't feel so uncomfortable, knowing
it. I wish we hadn't ordered lobster thermidor. I wish--there! the
policeman's moving him on."

Father Fitzpatrick reached over and took her hand, as it lay on the
table, in his great grasp. "Fanny, girl, you've told me what I wanted to
know. Haynes-Cooper or no Haynes-Cooper, millions or no millions, your
ravines aren't choked up with ashes yet, my dear. Thank God."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

From now on Fanny Brandeis' life became such a swift-moving thing that
your trilogist would have regarded her with disgust. Here was no slow
unfolding, petal by petal. Here were two processes going on, side by
side. Fanny, the woman of business, flourished and throve like a weed,
arrogantly flaunting its head above the timid, white flower that lay
close to the soil, and crept, and spread, and multiplied. Between the
two the fight went on silently.

Fate, or Chance, or whatever it is that directs our movements, was
forever throwing tragic or comic little life-groups in her path, and
then, pointing an arresting finger at her, implying, "This means you!"
Fanny stepped over these obstructions, or walked around them, or stared
straight through them.

She had told herself that she would observe the first anniversary of her
mother's death with none of those ancient customs by which your pious
Jew honors his dead. There would be no Yahrzeit light burning for
twenty-four hours. She would not go to Temple for Kaddish prayer. But
the thing was too strong for her, too anciently inbred. Her ancestors
would have lighted a candle, or an oil lamp. Fanny, coming home at six,
found herself turning on the shaded electric lamp in her hall. She went
through to the kitchen.

"Princess, when you come in to-morrow morning you'll find a light in the
hall. Don't turn it off until to-morrow evening at six."

"All day long, Miss Fan! Mah sakes, wa' foh?"

"It's just a religious custom."

"Didn't know yo' had no relijin, Miss Fan. Leastways, Ah nevah could
figgah----"

"I haven't," said Fanny, shortly. "Dinner ready soon, Princess? I'm
starved."

She had entered a Jewish house of worship only once in this year. It was
the stately, white-columned edifice on Grand Boulevard that housed the
congregation presided over by the famous Kirsch. She had heard of him,
naturally. She was there out of curiosity, like any other newcomer to
Chicago. The beauty of the auditorium enchanted her--a magnificently
pro