should say is, simply, that when certain persons spoke of him they affirmed that the reason of his spending so much time at Geneva was that he was extremely devoted to a lady who lived there—­a foreign lady—­a person older than himself.  Very few Americans—­indeed, I think none—­had ever seen this lady, about whom there were some singular stories.  But Winterbourne had an old attachment for the little metropolis of Calvinism; he had been put to school there as a boy, and he had afterward gone to college there—­circumstances which had led to his forming a great many youthful friendships.  Many of these he had kept, and they were a source of great satisfaction to him.

After knocking at his aunt’s door and learning that she was indisposed, he had taken a walk about the town, and then he had come in to his breakfast.  He had now finished his breakfast; but he was drinking a small cup of coffee, which had been served to him on a little table in the garden by one of the waiters who looked like an attache.  At last he finished his coffee and lit a cigarette.  Presently a small boy came walking along the path—­an urchin of nine or ten.  The child, who was diminutive for his years, had an aged expression of countenance, a pale complexion, and sharp little features.  He was dressed in knickerbockers, with red stockings, which displayed his poor little spindle-shanks; he also wore a brilliant red cravat.  He carried in his hand a long alpenstock, the sharp point of which he thrust into everything that he approached—­the flowerbeds, the garden benches, the trains of the ladies’ dresses.  In front of Winterbourne he paused, looking at him with a pair of bright, penetrating little eyes.

“Will you give me a lump of sugar?” he asked in a sharp, hard little voice—­ a voice immature and yet, somehow, not young.

Winterbourne glanced at the small table near him, on which his coffee service rested, and saw that several morsels of sugar remained.  “Yes, you may take one,” he answered; “but I don’t think sugar is good for little boys.”

This little boy stepped forward and carefully selected three of the coveted fragments, two of which he buried in the pocket of his knickerbockers, depositing the other as promptly in another place.  He poked his alpenstock, lance-fashion, into Winterbourne’s bench and tried to crack the lump of sugar with his teeth.

“Oh, blazes; it’s har-r-d!” he exclaimed, pronouncing the adjective in a peculiar manner.

Winterbourne had immediately perceived that he might have the honor of claiming him as a fellow countryman.  “Take care you don’t hurt your teeth,” he said, paternally.

“I haven’t got any teeth to hurt.  They have all come out.  I have only got seven teeth.  My mother counted them last night, and one came out right afterward.  She said she’d slap me if any more came out.  I can’t help it.  It’s this old Europe.  It’s the climate that makes them come out.  In America they didn’t come out.  It’s these hotels.”