“Of all the selfish, impertinent brats!” I could not help muttering.

“If I’m a brat, you’re a brute, sir.  You have only to glance at the dictionary to see which is worse.”

He looked so impish, defying me, like a miniature Ajax, that with all the will in the world to box his ears, I burst out laughing.

Checking my mirth as soon as I could, however, I covered its inappropriateness with a steely frown.  “I do not need to glance at the dictionary to see that you would be a detestable room-mate,” said I, “and on second thoughts I prefer to sleep quietly in the stable rather than press my claim here.”  With this, I turned on my heel, not giving the enemy time for another volley, and stalked downstairs, followed, I regret to say, by Innocentina’s ribald laughter.

Almost immediately I was rejoined by the handsome landlady, who, profuse in her regrets, though she had understood no word of what had passed, attempted to console me with the promise of a bed in the salle-a-manger.  Meanwhile, if I desired to wash, her brother would superintend my ablutions.

Over those rites (which were duly performed at a pump, while the little wretch upstairs wallowed in the luxury of a basin almost as large as my hat), I draw a veil.  By the time that they were finished, and I was shining with yellow kitchen soap, having been unable to make use of my own in the circumstances, supper was ready.  I walked sulkily into the room, which later would be transformed into my bedchamber, and to my annoyance saw the Brat already seated at the table.  I had fancied that his conscience would counsel supping privately in the room he had usurped, but this imp seemed to have been born without a sense of shame.  Thanks to him, I had not even been able to give myself a clean collar, as it had not been possible to open the mule-pack and improvise a dressing-room in the neighbourhood of the pump.  But he—­he, the usurper, he, the guilty one—­had changed from his low-necked shirt and blue serge jacket and knickers into a kind of evening costume, original, I should say, to himself, or copied from some stage child, or Christmas Annual.

He did not speak to me, nor I to him, though, as I sat down in the chair placed for me at the opposite end of the table, I caught a sapphire gleam from the brilliant eyes, which burned so vividly in the little brown face.

There came an omelette.  It was passed to me.  Maliciously, I selected the best bit from the middle.  The boy took what was left.  Veal followed, in the form of cutlets, two in number.  A glance showed me that one was mostly composed of bone and gristle.  I helped myself to the other.  Revenge was mine at last, though to enjoy it fully I must have a peep at the enemy, to make sure that he felt and understood his righteous punishment.