“These foreigners!” exclaimed young Edward Burney when Rauzzini had left them, and Fanny was asking her cousin if her father was not looking for her. “These foreigners! Your father is talking with another of them—an Italian too, as I live—I have seen him in St. Martin’s Street—Signor Piozzi. But I suppose Uncle Burney likes to keep in touch with them. The town is swarming with them: they are even to be found about Leicester Fields. Why do some people fancy that we must have Italians to sing for us? There are plenty of good singers in England, without a drop of foreign blood in their veins. A good sea song with a chorus that is easy to get into the swing of—that’s English and honest.”
“Honest down to the hoarsest note,” said Fanny. “You and James are at one in the matter of songs.”
“Cousin Jim hates foreigners, as is quite proper that an officer in a King’s ship should,” said Edward stoutly.
“Not all foreigners,” said Fanny smiling. “You forget how kindly he took to Prince Omai.”
“Oh, a South Sea Islander is different,” cried her cousin. “I expect that the South Seas will soon become as English as ourselves if Captain Cook goes on discovering islands.”
“Edward,” said Fanny, after a pause sufficient to allow of the introduction of a new topic; “Edward, could you make it convenient to call at the Orange Coffee House some day soon to inquire if there is another letter for Mr. Grafton?”
“I’ll not omit it on any account,” he replied. “Oh, yes, Mr. Grafton, I’ll collect your correspondence for you, never fear. You have not let anyone else into the secret, I hope?”
“No one knows it except Susy and Lottie and Charles and Hetty; but Hetty only knows that I wrote the book, not that it is to be printed—Charles is still away from us, or I would not trouble you, Edward.”
“Poor Charlie grew tired of the Orange Coffee House, did he not? He told me how you made him your messenger at first, disguising him in a cloak and a gentleman’s hat, so that he might not seem quite the boy that he was. But how the secret has been kept so well is a wonder to me—kept from the powers that be, I mean—uncle and aunt. I wonder if your mother never had a suspicion of what was going on, especially as she knew all about your writing long ago.”
“I think that it was the copying out of the padre’s History that saved me,” said Fanny. “Many a page of my novel I wrote when she believed that I was copying the notes for the History—yes, that, and the letters which Mr. Crisp insists on my sending him every week. But even with these excuses I could sometimes not get through more than three or four pages of my own book during a whole week.”