ed.

And then Theodore was bowing his little jerky bows, and he was shaking
hands with Stock, and with the First Violin. He was gone. Fanny sat with
her hands in her lap. The applause continued. Theodore appeared again.
Bowed. He bent very low now, with his arms hanging straight. There was
something gracious and courtly about him. And foreign. He must keep
that, Fanny thought. They like it. She saw him off again. More applause.
Encores were against the house rules. She knew that. Then it meant they
were pleased. He was to play again. A group of Hungarian dances this
time. They were wild, gypsy things, rising to frenzy at times. He played
them with spirit and poetry. To listen sent the blood singing through
the veins. Fanny found herself thinking clearly and exaltedly.

"This is what my mother drudged for, and died for, and it was worth it.
And you must do the same, if necessary. Nothing else matters. What he
needs now is luxury. He's worn out with fighting. Ease. Peace. Leisure.
You've got to give them to him. It's no use, Fanny. You lose."

In that moment she reached a mark in her spiritual career that she was
to outdistance but once.

Theodore was bowing again. Fanny had scarcely realized that he had
finished. The concert was over.

"... the group of dances," the man behind her was saying as he helped
the girl next him with her coat, "but I didn't like that first thing.
Church music, not concert."

Fanny found her way back to the ante-room. Theodore was talking to the
conductor, and one or two others. He looked tired, and his eyes found
Fanny's with appeal and relief in them. She came over to him. There were
introductions, congratulations. Fanny slipped her hand over his with a
firm pressure.

"Come, dear. You must be tired."

At the door they found Fenger waiting. Theodore received his well-worded
congratulations with an ill-concealed scowl.

"My car's waiting," said Fenger. "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