He patted her kindly on the shoulder as he handed her the cup of black coffee. It was not nice, but Mildred felt better when she had swallowed it, and, recovering her spirits a little, began to look round her, and take some notice of her fellow performers. Some were anxiously tuning their instruments, and some were chatting with affected carelessness. A few of them she knew already, for she had spoken to them at the orchestra rehearsals, and several came forward now to give her a word of welcome. She was the youngest in the room. Most of the other students were practised players, some of whom indeed were training for a musical career. The Professor, anxious to keep up his deservedly high reputation as a teacher, would allow none but his best pupils to appear at his recitals.
"You get used to it in time," said one of the piano students, a tall, pretty girl with chestnut hair, just out of her teens, who stood working her fingers about as if to keep her joints supple. "I thought I should have died at my first concert, and now I don't really care very much."
"I think a good audience is rather inspiring," said a violoncellist, a self-conscious young fellow whose long waving hair and artistic necktie proclaimed him a budding professional. "I can always play better from a platform. A little applause seems to spur one on."
"Yes, if you get it," said another, nervously rubbing resin on his bow. "That generally remains to be seen."
"I've never missed an encore at any concert I've played at," returned the first confidently. "I shall be astonished if my Barcarolle is not a success, though one can't expect much real musical appreciation from town councillors and an ignorant public. I believe they'd applaud a German band!"
"Not so ignorant as you seem to think," said a third student, coming up to join the group. "I don't know any audience that can tell good music from bad better than a Kirkton one. It needs your best work to give satisfaction, and there's always a full and most intelligent criticism in the _Herald_ next day."
"I suppose the old Professor's exploiting you," said the violoncellist, turning to Mildred. "He isn't keen on juvenile prodigies as a rule. The last he had was little Mathilde Zimmermann, and she did nothing after all! Do you go out to 'At Homes'?"