“Cousin Philip may not fancy going everywhere with a B. B. party,” said Lillie, rather mischievously.
“I have no idea,” said Philip, “what a B. B. party is, but I shall be only too happy to go anywhere with you,” and he glanced affectionately at Miss Acton as if to include her.
“B. B. is short for bread-and-butter party,” explained Rose; “that’s what papa calls Miss Acton and Lillie and me when we do get leave to go off to the park, or the Zoo, or anything, because we take our lunch with us so as not to shock the proprieties by going into any of those lovely, darling restaurants for a bite.”
“Perhaps my uncle wouldn’t mind letting you go into a restaurant if you took me along for an escort,” said Philip, eager to please them.
“The idea!” said Rose pertly; “why, he’d think we were crazy to ask him; but maybe he would let us go into a pastry-cook’s and have a Bath bun; even that would be exciting, compared to getting round behind people to gobble lunch out of a paper bag.”
After this, lunch at the pastry-cook’s became a daily occurrence, and on one seraphic day, when Aunt Delia was persuaded to join the party, they celebrated the old lady’s birthday by actually dining at a restaurant, to the unutterable delight of Rose, who had suggested that form of dissipation as being, in her mind, more ineffably jolly than any other that was open to them.
Rest and recreation were so new to Philip that he entered with all the zest of a child into these simple pleasures, and for a few days would not even think of music. But as soon as the week he had allowed himself to devote to pleasure was over, he presented himself with his letters from the old maestro, from Lord Ashden, and from the managers in Milan, to a notable musical leader in London. Such powerful recommendations, and a private hearing of his playing upon both violin and piano, accomplished the result he desired, and an appearance was arranged for him at a concert in which a wonderful new tenor and a celebrated prima donna were to take part.
Even if he had been less talented, his success might have been considered certain, for Lord Ashden had written a long letter to a prominent patron of music and art, urging her to manifest an interest in his protégé. The lady, a wealthy widowed duchess, with a fine musical talent of her own, and a great fancy for discovering and patronizing young and unknown genius, responded promptly to Lord Ashden’s request by sending her card to Philip with an appointment for him to call on the following morning.
A desire from such a quarter was equal to a command, so Philip presented himself at the residence of Her Grace, and was received most kindly. He played, that was of course, and the lady was enchanted—honestly so—and kept him at it till he feared he must be wearying her. He must make his English début at her house; she should insist upon having the glory of being the first to exhibit this pearl she had discovered. Such flattering interest from such a source would have turned some older heads than his, but Philip accepted it all with a grave simplicity that was irresistibly charming to his patroness. It seemed to him that the compliments were to the music, not to himself; he was simply the medium that evoked it; as well praise the instrument for giving it as him for drawing it out. As quietly as he had received her praise, but with becoming gratitude, he accepted her invitation to play for her and a few friends on an evening before the concert. The promise was given, however, subject to the approval of the professional leader, whose consent the lady undertook to obtain herself.