Westbrook stirred restlessly, and his hostess suddenly became aware of the hopelessly lost look in his eyes. She promptly changed the subject.
It was the very next day that Mr. Joseph Westbrook appeared in the leading book-store of the city.
“I want some lives of musicians,” he announced.
“I beg pardon?”
“Books, I mean—lives of musicians.”
“Oh, certainly, of course,” apologized the clerk. “Which ones?”
“Why—er—the best ones, to be sure.” Westbrook’s voice faltered at first, but it vibrated with the courage of his convictions at the last.
The clerk suddenly turned his back, and when Westbrook next saw his face it was an apoplectic shade of reddish purple.
“Certainly, sir. Bach, Beethoven, Handel, Haydn, Mendelssohn, Mozart, Chopin——”