“Oh, Lord!” said Thyme, “there they are!” She flew towards the door.

“My dear,” murmured Cecilia, “if you must go, do please tell Father.”

A minute later Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace came in, followed by a young man with an interesting, pale face and a crop of dusky hair.

Let us consider for a minute the not infrequent case of a youth cursed with an Italian mother and a father of the name of Potts, who had baptised him William.  Had he emanated from the lower classes, he might with impunity have ground an organ under the name of Bill; but springing from the bourgeoisie, and playing Chopin at the age of four, his friends had been confronted with a problem of no mean difficulty.  Heaven, on the threshold of his career, had intervened to solve it.  Hovering, as it were, with one leg raised before the gladiatorial arena of musical London, where all were waiting to turn their thumbs down on the figure of the native Potts, he had received a letter from his mother’s birthplace.  It was inscribed:  “Egregio Signor Pozzi.”  He was saved.  By the simple inversion of the first two words, the substitution of z’s for t’s, without so fortunately making any difference in the sound, and the retention of that i, all London knew him now to be the rising pianist.

He was a quiet, well-mannered youth, invaluable just then to Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace, a woman never happy unless slightly leading a genius in strings.

Cecilia, while engaging them to right and left in her half-sympathetic, faintly mocking way—­as if doubting whether they really wanted to see her or she them—­heard a word of fear.

“Mr. Purcey.”

‘Oh Heaven!’ she thought.

Mr. Purcey, whose A.i.  Damyer could be heard outside, advanced in his direct and simple way.

“I thought I’d give my car a run,” he said.  “How’s your sister?” And seeing Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace, he added:  “How do you do?  We met the other day.”

“We did,” said Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace, whose little eyes were sparkling.  “We talked about the poor, do you remember?”

Mr. Purcey, a sensitive man if you could get through his skin, gave her a shrewd look.  ‘I don’t quite cotton to this woman,’ he seemed saying; ‘there’s a laugh about her I don’t like.’

“Ah! yes—­you were tellin’ me about them.”

“Oh, Mr. Purcey, but you had heard of them, you remember!”

Mr. Purcey made a movement of his face which caused it to seem all jaw.  It was a sort of unconscious declaration of a somewhat formidable character.  So one may see bulldogs, those amiable animals, suddenly disclose their tenacity.

“It’s rather a blue subject,” he said bluntly.

Something in Cecilia fluttered at those words.  It was like the saying of a healthy man looking at a box of pills which he did not mean to open.  Why could not she and Stephen keep that lid on, too?  And at this moment, to her deep astonishment, Stephen entered.  She had sent for him, it is true, but had never expected he would come.