"Monsieur Espinassous?" inquired Mattia.
Fluttering like a bird, the dapper little man, who was in the act of shaving a man, replied: "I am Monsieur Espinassous."
I glanced at Mattia as much as to say that the barber musician was not the man we were looking for, that it would be wasting good money to consult him, but Mattia, instead of understanding my look, sat down in a chair with a deliberate air.
"Will you cut my hair after you have shaved that gentleman?" he asked.
"Certainly, young man, and I'll give you a shave also, if you like."
"Thanks," replied Mattia.
I was abashed at his assurance. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, to ask me to wait before getting annoyed.
When the man was shaved, M. Espinassous, with towel over his arm, prepared to cut Mattia's hair.
"Monsieur," said Mattia, while the barber tied the sheet round his neck, "my friend and I had an argument, and as we know that you are a celebrated musician, we thought that you would give us your advice and settle the matter for us."
"What is it, young man?"