Stolen Idols by E. Phillips Oppenheim — Read

It was only after he had shown her around the picture gallery on the following Sunday afternoon that Claire properly appreciated Henry Ballaston. She listened to his last little dissertation -- stiff perhaps and a trifle pedantic, and yet in its way eloquent -- as to a supposed Romney, with something more than interest, almost enthusiasm. Here was a man who spoke from his heart of things he loved, and a man whom no one in the world, meeting him casually, would have suspected of possessing such a thing as a heart.

"Tell me what first made you love these things so," she begged.