There are no unspoilt people around today. But write down your name, and I’ll have a word with my impresario. His name is Theodor Diemitz and he’s in America at the moment—he always is, when one could do with him. He is also both an unpleasant and an honest man. A strange character! But I think he’ll exert himself for you. You just do as he says. If he fixes a concert in Siberia or Danzig for you, it doesn’t matter either way. You must entrust yourself to him. You can begin anywhere; it’s making a start that counts. A pity I can’t do that any more, but I’m a little too old for it. At least, that’s what I felt just now, listening to your sonata.”

Franziska was going to make some reply, but La Constanza waved it aside. Then there was suddenly uproar in a corner of the huge station. People were running hither and thither, dark tangled knots of them: a man’s pale neck could be seen as he craned to look over the rails; a policeman hurried up, his sword in his hand in case he tripped over it and fell. In the distance the low, menacing signal of a locomotive could be heard.

Madame Constanza was startled. Franziska, deep in her thoughts, noticed nothing, but Dagmar cried out in alarm. Her voice, a singer’s voice, rang out metallically through the concourse. But the crowd was coming back now, the policeman at its head supporting a railway worker whose left foot was dragging. It seemed that everything was all right, and the crowd dispersed. The train glided calmly into the station.

Dagmar was still very pale and trembling. She held a white handkerchief to her mouth. “Well, what is it now?” asked La Constanza. “Why did you scream? That’s going to do your voice a lot of good! Go home this minute and put a camomile compress round your throat. Or stay with us if you like, I don’t mind either way. What’s to become of Dagmar here?” she asked, turning to Franziska. “She’s much too pretty for her weak voice. Weak and alto into the bargain. Sad but true. I just can’t understand it. She must know how terribly sensitive her vocal apparatus is. The railway worker’s all right, but if dear Dagmar gets hoarse from screaming in the fug of this dusty air and loses her voice for three months, I shall be worrying about her, and goodness knows I have enough to worry about already.”

A pale young man, rather elegant, passed by, and looked at La Constanza for a long time.