"Won't you let me take you
home?"
A warning pressure from Theodore. "Thanks, no. We have a
car. Theodore's very tired."
"I can quite believe that."
"Not tired," growled Theodore, like a great boy. "I'm
hungry. Starved. I never eat before playing."
Kurt Stein, Theodore's manager, had been hovering over him
solicitously. "You must remember to-morrow night. I should
advise you to rest now, as quickly as possible." He, too,
glared at Fenger.
Fenger fell back, almost humbly. "I've great news for you.
I must see you Sunday. After this is over. I'll telephone
you. Don't try to come to work to-morrow." All this is a
hurried aside to Fanny.
Fanny nodded and moved away with Theodore.
Theodore leaned back in the car, but there was no hint of
relaxation. He was as tense and vibrant as one of his own
violin strings.
"It went, didn't it? They're like clods, these American
audiences." It was on the tip of Fanny's tongue to say that
he had professed indifference to audiences, but she wisely
refrained.
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