"
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.
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