es and
greeted such proclivities with an inclination to derision.

Thyme snatched up her book. "Well," she said, "I shall be in the attic.
If anyone interesting comes you might send up to me."

She stood, luxuriously stretching, and turning slowly round in a streak
of sunlight so as to bathe her body in it. Then, with a long soft yawn,
she flung up her chin till the sun streamed on her face. Her eyelashes
rested on cheeks already faintly browned; her lips were parted; little
shivers of delight ran down her; her chestnut hair glowed, burnished by
the kisses of the sun.

'Ah!' Cecilia thought, 'if that other girl were like this, now, I could
understand well enough!'

"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.