It was Schabelitz himself who
discovered my brother, and predicted his brilliant career.
Here"--she had been glancing over the artist's shoulder--
"will you let me make a sketch for you--just for the fun of
the thing? I do that kind of thing rather decently. Did
you see my picture called `The Marcher,' in the Star, at
the time of the suffrage parade in May? Yes, that was mine.
Just because he has what we call a butcher haircut, don't
think he's German, because he isn't. You wouldn't call
Winnebago, Wisconsin, Germany, would you?"
She was sketching him swiftly, daringly, masterfully. She
was bringing out the distinction, the suffering, the
boyishness in his face, and toning down the queer little
foreign air he had. Toning it, but not omitting it
altogether. She was too good a showman for that. As she
sketched she talked, and as she talked she drew Theodore
into the conversation, deftly, and just when he was needed.
She gave them what they had come for--a story. And a good
one. She brought in Mizzi and Otti, for color, and she saw
to it that they spelled those names as they should be
spelled.
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