but she lied, and she knew she was lying. She must have
known it was the spirit of Molly Brandeis in her, and of
Molly Brandeis' mother, and of her mother's mother's mother,
down the centuries to Sarah; repressed women, suffering
women, troubled, patient, nomadic women, struggling now in
her for expression.

And Fanny Brandeis went doggedly on, buying and selling
infants' wear, and doing it expertly. Her office desk would
have interested you. It was so likely to be littered with
the most appealing bits of apparel--a pair of tiny,
crocheted bootees, pink and white; a sturdy linen smock; a
silken hood so small that one's doubled fist filled it.

The new catalogue was on the presses. Fanny had slaved over
it, hampered by Slosson. Fenger had given her practically a
free hand. Results would not come in for many days. The
Christmas trade would not tell the tale, for that was always
a time of abnormal business. The dull season following the
holiday rush would show the real returns. Slosson was
discouragement itself. His attitude was not resentful; it
was pitying, and that frightened Fanny. She wished that he
would storm a little. Then she read her department
catalogue proof sheets, and these reassured her. They were
attractive. And the new baby book had turned out very well,
with a colored cover that would appeal to any one who had
ever been or seen a baby.

September brought a letter from Theodore. A letter from
Theodore meant just one thing. Fanny hesitated a moment