"Just look at that violin, and tell me what you think of it."
He opened the case. He glanced at the violin as it lay within; then he took it out. He handled it reverently. I have noticed that a genuine musician always does handle a fiddle—even a common fiddle—with a sort of reverence. He turned it over and over; he rapped its back softly with his knuckles; he peeped into its belly; he smelt it; he tucked it under his chin; then, putting it down, he fixed his eyes on me, with a light in them as of a smile.
"It's odd, but, do you know, I seem to have seen this violin somewhere before."
"Where have you seen it?"
"I fancy you know better than I. You have a little secret, uncle; come, what is it?"
"Is it a good violin?"
He drew the bow across it, tightening the strings. Then he played a little exercise and a snatch of some quaint melody. Then he lowered it and looked at it with glistening eyes.
"It is a good violin."
"How much is it worth?"
"It depends upon the man who buys it, and upon the length of his purse. I hope you did not give a fancy price."
"Is it dear at three-and-sixpence?"
"Three-and-sixpence? You are joking."
"That is what I gave for it—fiddle, bow, case, and all."
He was turning it over and over.
"Where did you get it?"
"In a dirty shop, in a dirty street, off Lisson Grove."
