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