“Of course not; and the public need to be impressed. I thank thee for that word, Mr. de Gray. By the way, it’s rather a pity I didn’t give you a Spanish or Italian name.”
“But I can’t speak either language. It would be seen through at once.”
“People wouldn’t think of asking. You’d be safe enough. They will generally swallow all you choose to say.”
They went down to dinner presently, and the professor—Philip could not help thinking—ate as if he were half-starved. He explained afterward that elocutionary effort taxes the strength severely, and makes hearty eating a necessity.
After dinner was over the professor said:
“Are you content, Mr. de Gray, to leave me to make the necessary arrangements?”
“I should prefer that you would,” said Philip, and he spoke sincerely. “Probably you understand much better than I what needs to be done.”
“’Tis well! Your confidence is well placed,” said the professor, with a wave of his hand. “Shall you remain in the hotel?”
“No, I think I will walk about the town and see a little of it. I have never been here before.”
Philip took a walk through the principal streets, surveying with curiosity the principal buildings, for, though there was nothing particularly remarkable about them, he was a young traveler, to whom everything was new. He could not help thinking of his late home, and in particular of Frank Dunbar, his special friend, and he resolved during the afternoon to write a letter to Frank, apprising him of his luck thus far. He knew that Frank would feel anxious about him, and would be delighted to hear of his success as a musician.