"I shall be able to play it when I try; and I shall try as soon as I get home." "Give us a sample here." "No, not here.

I particularly wish to play it first with Helen, in the room where I told her a 'cello was the instrument I had always wanted.
Oh, I say, isn't it a beauty! Look at those curves, and that wonderful polish, like the richest brown of the very darkest horse-chestnut you ever saw in a bursting bur! See how the silver strings shine in the firelight, against the black ebony of the finger-board! It was made at Prague, and it is a hundred and fifty years old.

I call it the Infant of Prague." "Why the 'Infant' ?" "Because you have to be so careful not to bump its head as you carry it about.

Also, isn't there a verse somewhere, about an Infant of Days who was a hundred years old, and young at that?
Helen will love the Infant.
She will polish it with a silk handkerchief, and make a bed for it on the sofa! I shan't write to her about it.

I shall bring it home as a surprise." He took his eyes from the 'cello and looked across at Helen's cousin; but Aubrey Treherne instantly shifted his gaze to the unconscious Infant.
"Tell me how you came across it.