or of Schabelitz, the
famous. There sounded a smart little double knock at her door. Fanny
did not heed it. She did not hear it. Her toes were caught behind the
chair-legs again. She was slumped down on the middle of her spine. She
had brought the table, with its ridiculously up-ended suitcase, very
near, so that she worked with a minimum of effort. The door opened.
Fanny did not turn her head. Ella Monahan came in, yawning. She was
wearing an expensive looking silk kimono that fell in straight, simple
folds, and gave a certain majesty to her ample figure.

"Well, what in the world--" she began, and yawned again, luxuriously.
She stopped behind Fanny's chair and glanced over her shoulder. The yawn
died. She craned her neck a little, and leaned forward. And the little
girl went marching by, in her cheap and crooked shoes, and her short
and sleazy skirt, with the banner tugging, tugging in the breeze.
Fanny Brandeis had done her with that economy of line, and absence
of sentimentality which is the test separating the artist from the
draughtsman.

Silence, except for the scratching of Fanny Brandeis's pen.

"Why--the poor little kike!" said Ella Monahan. Then, after another
moment of silence, "I didn't know you could draw like that."

Fanny laid down her pen. "Like what?" She pushed back her chair, and
rose, stiffly. The drawing, still wet, was propped up against the
suitcase. Fanny walked across the room. Ella dropped into her chair, so
that when Fanny came back to the table it was she who looked over Ella's
shoulder. Into Ella's shrewd and heavy face there had come a certain
look.

"They don't get a square deal, do they? They don't get a square deal."

The two looked at the girl a moment longer, in silence. Then Fanny went
over to the bed, and picked up her hat and coat. She smoothed her hair,
deftly, powdered her nose with care, and adjusted her hat at the smart
angle approved by the Galeries Lafayette. She came back to the table,
picked up her pen, and beneath the drawing wrote, in large print:

THE MARCHER.

She picked up the drawing, still wet, opened the door, and with a smile
at the bewildered Ella, was gone.

It was after eight o'clock when she reached the Star building. She asked
for Lasker's office, and sent in her card. Heyl had told her that Lasker
was always at his desk at eight. Now, Fanny Brandeis knew that the
average young woman, standing outside the office of a man like Lasker,
unknown and a