"But that is nonsense!" cried Hildegarde impatiently. "Do you mean to say that you are a flat surface, like a playing-card, with 'music' painted on you?"
"I didn't know I was flat!" rather stiffly.
"You see, you are not! then why not try to care for something else beside music, without caring any the less for that?"
"What is there to care for? a parcel of musty old books, such as Uncle Tom is forever reading."
"Oh! oh! you Goth! As if it were not a rapture simply to look at the outside of your uncle's books. To see my heart's own Doctor in dark blue calf, with all that beautiful tooling—"
"What Doctor? what are you talking about, Hildegarde?"
"Johnson, of course! Is there another? as the man in Punch says about his hatter. And even in your own line, you foolish boy! Have you never read that beautiful 'Life of Handel'? I looked into it the other day, and it seemed delightful."
"No," said Jack, looking blank. "Where is it? I never saw it."
"Bookcase between the south windows, fourth shelf, about the middle; three fat volumes in green morocco. And you never saw it, because you never look at the books at all. What do you look at, Jack, except your music and your violin? For example, do you ever look in the glass? I know you don't."
"How do you know?" and Jack blushed hotly.