"Fine figure of a woman, what?" whispered the Mayor, glancing towards Mrs. Rantzau.
"H'm," said Vindt. "Handsome enough to look at, but a bit of a handful to look after, if you ask me. Like the cakes in a cookshop window—I like 'em, but they don't agree with me!"
There was silence in the hall as the first notes rang out. All were watching the young performer; a little anxiously perhaps, as if in fear lest he should break down. And all felt that in some degree the honour of the town was here at stake, for the boy was one of their own.
But the little figure at the piano sat calm and free from nervousness; he was in another world, where he felt himself at home. The watching eyes and listening ears did not trouble him; he seemed gazing inwardly at a starry sky far above them all.
The music swelled and sank, now wild and furious as the north-east wind raging over the rocky coast in autumn, then gentle as the evening breeze of a summer's day.
Eyes glistened now with fervour, hearts beat proudly. All present seemed to share in his happiness, to have some part in the triumph of his genius.
The applause was hearty and unanimous.
"Bravo, Hans!" came a deep voice from the gallery. All turned to see who had spoken. Ah, there—it was Bramsen, standing up with both hands outstretched and clapping thunderously.
Amanda flushed with embarrassment, and nudged her father to make him stop. But he snapped out impatiently, "You leave me alone!" and went on clapping.