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?”