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