Purely from the point of view of the picturesque, there was some excuse for madame’s preoccupation.  The boy would have delighted an artist, no doubt, though our first interchange of glances gave me a strong desire to smack him.

His panama—­a miniature copy of mine—­hung over the back of his old-fashioned chair—­the one, no doubt, in which Napoleon had sat to eat the dejeuner.  Soft rings of dark, chestnut hair, richly bright as Japanese bronze, had been flattened across his forehead by the now discarded hat.  This hair, worn too long for any self-respecting, twentieth-century boy, curled round his small head and behind the slim throat, which was like a stem for the flower of his strange little face.  “Strange” was the first adjective which came into my mind; yet, if he had been a girl instead of a boy, he would have been beautiful.  The delicately pencilled brows were exquisite, and out of the small brown face looked a pair of large, brilliant eyes of an extraordinary blue—­the blue of the wild chicory.  When the boy glanced up or down, there was great play of dark lashes, long, and amazingly thick.  This would have been charming on a girl, but seemed somehow affected in a boy, though one could hardly have accused the little snipe of making his own eyelashes.  He wore a very loose-trousered knickerbocker suit of navy-blue; a white silk shirt or blouse, loose also, with a turned-down Byronic collar and a careless black bow underneath.  He had extremely small hands, tanned brown, and on the least finger of one was a seal ring.  My impression of this youthful tourist was that in age he might be anywhere between thirteen and seventeen, and I was sure that he would be the better for a good thrashing.

“Some rich, silly mother’s darling,” I said to myself.  “Little milksop, travelling with a muff of a tutor, I suppose.  Why doesn’t the ass teach him good manners?”

This lesson seemed particularly necessary, because the youth persisted in holding the attention of the landlady, who, with a comfortable back to me, laughed at some sally of the boy’s.  When I had stood for a moment or two, waiting for a pause which did not come, although the brat saw me and knew well what I wanted, I spoke coldly:  “Pardon, madame, I desire something to eat,” I said in French.

The landlady turned, surprised at the voice behind her.

“But certainly, Monsieur.  Though I regret that you have come at an unfortunate time.  We have not a great variety to offer you.”

“Something of this sort will suit me very well,” I replied, feeling hungrily that chicken, salad, custard, and figs were the things which of all others I would choose.

“It is most regrettable, Monsieur, but this young gentleman has our only chicken, unless you could wait for another to be killed, plucked, and made ready for the table.”

I shuddered at the suggestion, and did not hide my repulsion.  “I must put up with an omelette, then, I suppose I can have that?”