So in the third concert Anne-Marie played Handel and Mozart, and the audience shouted and clapped.
But the critics said that, though she played the easy, simple music very nicely for her age, still, in a London concert hall one expected to hear something more puissant and authoritative. And why did she give concerts at all? Why not do something else? Study composition, for instance?
"That's England all over," said the manager, and went out and played golf.
Nancy was bewildered and unhappy. Bemolle danced about in helpless Latin rage, and Fräulein sat down and wrote a long letter to the Times. But it is uncertain whether the Times printed it.
Anne-Marie, who did not know that critics existed, nor care what critics said, was happy and cheerful, and bought a dog in Regent Street, to replace the quarantined Schopenhauer. He was a young and thin and careless dog, and answered to the name of Ribs. Then Anne-Marie decided that she loved England very much.
Many people called at the hotel to ask for autographs, and to express their views. One elderly musician was very stern with Anne-Marie, and sterner still with Nancy. He began by asking Nancy what she thought her child was going to be in the future.
"I do not know," said Nancy. "I am grateful for what she is now."
"Ah! but you must think of the future. You want her to be a great artist—"
"I don't know that I do," said Nancy. "She is a great artist now. If she degenerates"—and Nancy smiled—"into merely a happy woman, she will have had more than her share of luck."
"Take care! The prodigy will kill the artist!" repeated the stern man. "You pluck the flower and you lose the fruit."