charm. She had a hat and suit bought in Paris, France; and
a secretary is only human.

Carl Lasker's private office was the bare, bright,
newspaper-strewn room of a man who is not only a newspaper
proprietor, but a newspaper man. There's a difference.
Carl Lasker had sold papers on the street when he was ten.
He had slept on burlap sacks, paper stuffed, in the basement
of a newspaper office. Ink flowed with the blood in his
veins. He could operate a press. He could manipulate a
linotype machine (that almost humanly intelligent piece of
mechanism). He could make up a paper single handed,
and had done it. He knew the newspaper game, did Carl
Lasker, from the composing room to the street, and he was a
very great man in his line. And so he was easy to reach,
and simple to talk to, as are all great men.

A stocky man, decidedly handsome, surprisingly young, well
dressed, smooth shaven, direct.

Fanny entered. Lasker laid down her card. "Brandeis.
That's a good name." He extended his hand. He wore evening
clothes, with a white flower in his buttonhole. He must
have just come from a dinner, or he was to attend a late
affair, somewhere. Perhaps Fanny, taken aback,
unconsciously showed her surprise, because Lasker grinned,
as he waved her to a chair. His quick mind had interpreted
her thought.

"Sit down, Miss Brandeis. You think I'm gotten up like the