"That's right!" shouted the Professor suddenly. "Fa, mi, sol—play that on the fourth string."
Anne-Marie nodded without stopping. Eight accented notes by the piano, echoed by Anne-Marie.
"That is to sound like a trumpet!" cried the master.
"Yes, yes; I remember," said Anne-Marie.
And now for the third time the melody returned, and Anne-Marie played it softly, as in a dream, with a gruppetto in pianissimo that made the Professor push his hands into his pockets, and the assistant turn his head from the piano to look at her. At the end the slowly ascending scales soared and floated into the distance, and the three last, calling notes fell from far away.
No one spoke for a moment; then the Professor went close to the child and said:
"Why did you say, 'I remember' when I told you about the trumpet notes?"
"I don't know," said Anne-Marie, with the vague look she always had after she had played.
"What did you mean?"
"I meant that I understood," said Anne-Marie.