"Theodore!" she called quietly, just as he was tip-toeing
past her room.
"Yeh."
"Come in here. And turn on the light."
He switched on the light and stood there in the doorway.
Molly Brandeis, sitting up in bed in the chilly room, with
her covers about her, was conscious of a little sick
feeling, not at what he had done, but that a son of hers
should ever wear the sullen, defiant, hang-dog look that
disfigured Theodore's face now.
"Bauer's?"
A pause. "Yes."
"Why?"
"I just stopped in there for a minute after the concert. I
didn't mean to stay. And then Bauer introduced me around to
everybody. And then they asked me to play, and--"
"And you played badly."
"Well, I didn't have my own violin."
"No football game Saturday. And no pocket money this week.
Go to bed."
He went, breathing hard, and muttering a little under his
breath. At breakfast next morning Fanny plied him with
questions and was furious at his cool uncommunicativeness.
"Was it wonderful, Theodore? Did he play--oh--like an
angel?"
"Played all right.
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