The following winter, when Nancy had been in Prague nearly a year, the Professor said:
"Next month Anne-Marie will give an orchestral concert."
"Oh, Herr Professor!" gasped Nancy. "Was giebt's?" asked the Professor.
"Was giebt's?" asked Anne-Marie.
"She is only nine years old."
"Well?" said the Professor.
"Well?" said Anne-Marie.
Who can describe the excitement of the following days? The excitement of Bemolle over the choice of a programme! The excitement of Fräulein over the choice of a dress! The excitement of Nancy, who could close no eye at night, who pictured Anne-Marie breaking down or stopping in the middle of a piece, or beginning to cry, or refusing to go on to the platform, or catching cold the day before! Everyone was febrile and overwrought except Anne-Marie herself, who seemed to trouble not at all about it.
She was to play the Max Bruch Concerto? Gut! And the Fantasia Appassionata? All right. And the Paganini variations on the G string? Very well. And now might she go out with Schop? For Schopenhauer, long-bodied and ungainly, had come with them to Europe, and was now friends with all the gay dogs of Prague.
"I will order the pink dress," said Fräulein.