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 “What’s that Daddy Beneš is saying?” a pretty, merry-faced young girl, sitting near him, asked in German.

“Oh, nothing, minx,” said he, patting her hair. “What’s new in Zlonits, Leon?”

“Nothing for a long time, nothing at all! But, thunder!—Daddy has a new cravat today.” Beneš consciously drew his chin up high and stretched out his legs. “And look at his finely polished boots, too. Daddy is celebrating something today!

Beneš frowned slightly. “Don’t crowd up so close to me, Pauline.” And he turned again to the young girl.

“Lukova is taking a shine to Daddy!” was the cry from around the circle.

“Daddy, haven’t you got some new songs for me?” asked the young chorus girl, destined later to become a renowned prima donna.

Beneš paused to look at her. “You are pretty—but you haven’t such eyes as hers, after all! Well, it’s all one, you’ll amount to something—you and Leon here—but the rest won’t get very far!”

“Oho—who can know that?” wrathfully exclaimed a young violinist opposite. “You, too, had talent, Daddy, well—and—” He did not finish.

“Well, and what? What could an accompanist become other than an accompanist? I was one in Prague and I am the same in Vienna.”

“But what if you had finished your studies in Prague?”