Fanny stared at him, a picture of ludicrous astonishment.
“Why, you talk as if you were—sorry for me!”
“I am, dear. God knows I am. I'll make it up to you, somehow.”
It was the first time in all her dashing and successful career that Fanny Brandeis had felt the sting of pity. She resented it, hotly. And from Theodore, the groper, the—“But at any rate,” something within her said, “he has always been true to himself.”
Theodore's manager arrived in September, on a Holland boat, on which he had been obliged to share a stuffy inside cabin with three others. Kurt Stein was German born, but American bred, and he had the American love of luxurious travel. He was still testy when he reached Chicago and his charge.
“How goes the work?” he demanded at once, of Theodore. He eyed him sharply. “That's better. You have lost some of the look you had when you left Wien. The ladies would have liked that look, here in America. But it is bad for the work.”
He took Fanny aside before he left. His face was serious. It was plain that he was disturbed. “That woman,” he began. “Pardon me, Mrs. Brandeis. She came to me. She says she is starving. She is alone there, in Vienna. Her—well, she is alone. The war is everywhere. They say it will last for years. She wept and pleaded with me to take her here.”
“No!” cried Fanny. “Don't let him hear it. He mustn't know. He——”
“Yes, I know. She is a paradox, that woman. I tell you, she almost prevailed on me. There is something about her; something that repels and compels.” That struck him as being a very fine phrase indeed, and he repeated it appreciatively.
“I'll send her money, somehow,” said Fanny.