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 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. “Gad! I'm hungry. What makes this Fenger hang around so? I'm going to tell him to keep away, some day. The way he stares at you. Let's go somewhere to-night, Fan. Or have some people in. I can't sit about after I've played. Olga always used to have a supper party, or something.”