erman violinist," interrupted Fanny. "Please get that
straight. He's American. He is THE American violinist--or will be, as
soon as his concert tour here is well started. It was Schabelitz
himself who discovered my brother, and predicted his brilliant career.
Here"--she had been glancing over the artist's shoulder--"will you let
me make a sketch for you--just for the fun of the thing? I do that kind
of thing rather decently. Did you see my picture called `The Marcher,'
in the Star, at the time of the suffrage parade in May? Yes, that was
mine. Just because he has what we call a butcher haircut, don't think
he's German, because he isn't. You wouldn't call Winnebago, Wisconsin,
Germany, would you?"

She was sketching him swiftly, daringly, masterfully. She was bringing
out the distinction, the suffering, the boyishness in his face, and
toning down the queer little foreign air he had. Toning it, but not
omitting it altogether. She was too good a showman for that. As she
sketched she talked, and as she talked she drew Theodore into the
conversation, deftly, and just when he was needed. She gave them what
they had come for--a story. And a good one. She brought in Mizzi and
Otti, for color, and she saw to it that they spelled those names as they
should be spelled. She managed to gloss over the question of Olga. Ill.
Detained. Last minute. Too brave to sacrifice her husband's American
tour. She finished her sketch and gave it to the woman reporter. It was
an amazingly compelling little piece of work--and yet, not so amazing,
perhaps, when you consider the thing that Fanny Brandeis had put into
it. Then she sent them away, tactfully. They left, knowing all that
Fanny Brandeis had wanted them to know; guessing little that she had
not wanted them to guess. More than that no human being can accomplish,
without the advice of his lawyer.

"Whew!" from Fanny, when the door had closed.

"Gott im Himmel!" from Theodore. "I had forgotten that America was like
that."

"But America IS like that. And Teddy, we're going to make it sit up and
take notice."

At that Theodore drooped again. Fanny thought that he looked startlingly
as she remembered her father had looked in those days of her childhood,
when Brandeis' Bazaar was slithering downhill. The sight of him moved
her to a sudden resolve. She crossed swiftly to him, and put one
heartening hand on his shoulder.

"Come on, brother. Out with it. Let's have it all now."

He reached