paper just beneath that on which Fanny had made her drawing.
At that moment Schabelitz, glancing up, saw her, and came
forward, smiling, the jack-in-the-box still in his hand.

"Dear lady, I hope I have not entirely disorganized your
shop. I have had a most glorious time. Would you believe
it, this jack-in-the-box looks exactly--but exactly--
like my manager, Weber, when the box-office receipts are
good. He grins just--"

And then his eye fell on the drawing that Fanny was trying
to cover with one brown paw. "Hello! What's this?" Then
he looked at Fanny. Then he grasped her wrist in his
fingers of steel and looked at the sketch that grinned back
at him impishly. "Well, I'm damned!" exploded Schabelitz in
amusement, and surprise, and appreciation. And did not
apologize. "And who is this young lady with the sense of
humor?"

"This is my little girl, Fanny."

He looked down at the rough sketch again, with its clean-cut
satire, and up again at the little girl in the school coat
and the faded red tam o' shanter, who was looking at him
shyly, and defiantly, and provokingly, all at once.

"Your little girl Fanny, h'm? The one who is to give up
everything that the boy Theodore may become a great
violinist." He bent again over the crude, effective
cartoon, then put a forefinger gently under the child's chin