His fingers itched for his violin, but he could not practise. It would not disturb Aunt Peace, but it would be considered out of keeping with the situation. The Doctor’s rooms over the post-office were also impossible. He smiled at the thought of the gossip which would permeate East Lancaster if he should practise there.
But at Herr Kaufmann’s? His face brightened, and with characteristic impulsiveness he hastened downstairs.
Doctor Brinkerhoff still stood in the hall, a little wearily, perhaps, but calmness overlaid his features like a mask. Lynn wondered at the change in him.
“Mr. Irving,” he said, huskily, “you were going out?”
“Yes,” replied Lynn, “to Herr Kaufmann’s. I can do nothing here,” he added, by way of apology.
“No,” sighed the Doctor, “no one can do anything here, but wait one moment.”
“Yes?” responded Lynn, with a rising inflection. “Is there some message?”
“It is my message,” said the Doctor, with dignity. “Say to him, please, that no provision has been made for music to-morrow, and that I would like him to come. Be sure to say that I ask it.”
“Very well.”
Lynn moved away from the house decorously, though the freedom of the outer air and the spring of the turf beneath his feet lifted the cloud from his spirits and urged him to hasten his steps.