But there was a singular flushing of his handsome face in the act that stirred her with a strange pity, made her own cheek hot with sympathy, and compelled her to look at him more attentively.  The back that was turned towards her was broad-shouldered and symmetrical, and showed a frame that seemed to require stronger nourishment than the simple coffee and roll he had ordered and was devouring slowly.  His clothes, well made though worn, fitted him in a smart, soldier-like way, and accentuated his decided military bearing.  The singular use of his left hand in lifting his cup made her uneasy, until a slight movement revealed the fact that his right sleeve was empty and pinned to his coat.  He was one-armed.  She turned her compassionate eyes aside, yet lingered to make a few purchases at the counter, as he paid his bill and walked away.  But she was surprised to see that he tendered the waiter the unexampled gratuity of a sou.  Perhaps he was some eccentric Englishman; he certainly did not look like a Frenchman.

She had quite forgotten the incident, and in the afternoon had strolled with a few fellow pupils into the galleries of the Louvre.  It was “copying-day,” and as her friends loitered around the easels of the different students with the easy consciousness of being themselves “artists,” she strolled on somewhat abstractedly before them.  Her own art was too serious to permit her much sympathy with another, and in the chatter of her companions with the young painters a certain levity disturbed her.  Suddenly she stopped.  She had reached a less frequented room; there was a single easel at one side, but the stool before it was empty, and its late occupant was standing in a recess by the window, with his back towards her.  He had drawn a silk handkerchief from his pocket.  She recognized his square shoulders, she recognized the handkerchief, and as he unrolled it she recognized the fragments of her morning’s breakfast as he began to eat them.  It was the one-armed man.

She remained so motionless and breathless that he finished his scant meal without noticing her, and even resumed his place before the easel without being aware of her presence.  The noise of approaching feet gave a fresh impulse to her own, and she moved towards him.  But he was evidently accustomed to these interruptions, and worked on steadily without turning his head.  As the other footsteps passed her she was emboldened to take a position behind him and glance at his work.  It was an architectural study of one of Canaletto’s palaces.  Even her inexperienced eyes were struck with its vigor and fidelity.  But she was also conscious of a sense of disappointment.  Why was he not—­like the others—­copying one of the masterpieces?  Becoming at last aware of a motionless woman behind him, he rose, and with a slight gesture of courtesy and a half-hesitating “Vous verrez mieux la, mademoiselle,” moved to one side.

“Thank you,” said Miss Maynard in English, “but I did not want to disturb you.”