Signor Marini was such an exceedingly busy man that it was several days before he could make time to have Philip brought to the conservatory. The great teacher was very fond of Lord Ashden, and would have gone out of his way to have done him a favor, but he was rather sceptical about Philip’s playing; he had had several rather unfortunate experiences with child musicians, and was sceptical about infant prodigies in general. Moreover, he assured his friend that if the Angel Gabriel should have come down from heaven to take lessons from him just at this time, he could not have complied with his request.
“You understand,” he said in his quick, Italian way, “I can no longer teach any one—not the greatest violinist living. I am too busy and too old—and my conservatory, the management of it, the routine, it is enough; but you may bring your boy, ah, yes, I will find for him the best teacher in Milan.”
“Ah, signor,” said Lord Ashden, disappointed, “I had hoped that you would take the boy yourself.”
“Quite impossible!” said the teacher, shaking his head, “but, as I said, bring the boy, and we will see.”
Fortunately, Philip did not realize the importance of the ordeal through which he was to pass, when one morning at breakfast Lord Ashden said quietly:
“I want you to bring your violin, and come with me this morning to play for an old friend of mine, who may be able to give you some valuable advice about your music.”
After breakfast, accordingly, they drove for several miles through the older portion of the city, and at last the carriage drew up before a dingy door in what had been an ancient palace. They were ushered without delay to the private office of the maestro, a little, wiry, keen-eyed old man, in a greasy smoking-jacket, and smelling strongly of tobacco. He looked at Philip sharply from under his shaggy eyebrows, remarking with a kind of grunt, in Italian:
“Handsome, like his father,” for Signor Marini remembered the young English artist who had been travelling with Lord Ashden during his last visit to Italy, and who had dabbled a little in music, as he said himself, “while he waited for the first coat of paint to dry on his canvases.”
In fact, the old man was so full of reminiscences that Lord Ashden was obliged at last to remind him of the real object of the visit.
“Ah, yes,” grunted the music teacher rather ungraciously. “The boy may play.”