It was after eight o'clock when she reached the Star
building. She asked for Lasker's office, and sent in her
card. Heyl had told her that Lasker was always at his desk
at eight. Now, Fanny Brandeis knew that the average young
woman, standing outside the office of a man like Lasker,
unknown and at the mercy of office boy or secretary,
continues to stand outside until she leaves in
discouragement. But Fanny knew, too, that she was not an
average young woman. She had, on the surface, an air of
authority and distinction. She had that quiet assurance of
one accustomed to deference. She had youth, and beauty, and
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.
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