So the good Gregory put her in the care of a trusted driver, and saw her started on her adventure.
Now she was driven—it seemed to her they were hours on the way—to the Tartar's Head, a coffee-house of not very imposing appearance, in a crowded part.
Before reaching her destination she almost wished she had let Gregory come: it was so noisy; the air was so dingy it deadened one's spirits despite wealth of delightful prospects; and she must face various unknown, perhaps unfriendly, faces before finding his face—after which all would be well.
She descended from the carriage with a little flutter, then with the haste of rout got into it again, and requested the driver to bring some one to her, as if she had been a great person.
A young man came out to take her commands, a well-oiled young man in side-whiskers and a broad shirt-front.
Had not letters been received there addressed to so-and-so?
The young man was more than polite. Inquiries were made. Such letters had been received. The person to whom they were addressed called for them.
"I am his mother," said Emmie, lamely, for she had prepared another course than this simple one, a course involving strategy. "Does he not live here? Where does he live?"
The young man continued very obliging. He made further inquiries and came back looking a little blank. The person came himself and left no direction for forwarding his letters; a letter had once been waiting several weeks.
"Does no one here know him?" asked his mother, nearly in tears. Of a sudden this city seemed to her terribly large, and terribly full of people who cared nothing for any distress of hers. "He plays on the violin—he plays very beautifully on the violin."