“Seems to me you're putting an awful lot into this,” observed Ella Monahan, her wise eyes on Fanny's rather tense face.
“You've got to,” replied Fanny, “to get anything out of it.”
“I guess you're right,” Ella agreed, and laughed a rueful little laugh. “I know I've given 'em everything I've got—and a few things I didn't know I had. It's a queer game—life. Now if my old father hadn't run a tannery in Racine, and if I hadn't run around there all the day, so that I got so the smell and feel of leather and hides were part of me, why, I'd never be buyer of gloves at Haynes-Cooper. And you——”
“Brandeis' Bazaar.” And was going on, when her office boy came in with a name. Ella rose to go, but Fanny stopped her. “Father Fitzpatrick! Bring him right in! Miss Monahan, you've got to meet him. He's”—then, as the great frame of the handsome old priest filled the doorway—“he's just Father Fitzpatrick. Ella Monahan.”
The white-haired Irishman, and the white-haired Irish woman clasped hands.
“And who are you, daughter, besides being Ella Monahan?”
“Buyer of gloves at Haynes-Cooper, Father.”
“You don't tell me, now!” He turned to Fanny, put his two big hands on her shoulders, and swung her around to face the light. “Hm,” he murmured, noncommittally, after that.
“Hm—what?” demanded Fanny. “It sounds unflattering, whatever it means.” “Gloves!” repeated Father Fitzpatrick, unheeding her. “Well, now, what d'you think of that! Millions of dollars' worth, I'll wager, in your time.”
“Two million and a half in my department last year,” replied Ella, without the least trace of boastfulness. One talked only in terms of millions at Haynes-Cooper's.