ejudiced, but I thought his eyes
treacherous. He said nothing for some time; he leaned his hands on his
cane and looked up and down the street Then at last, slowly lifting
his cane and pointing with it, "That's a very nice bit," he remarked,
softly. He had his head on one side, and his little eyes were half
closed. I followed the direction of his stick; the object it indicated
was a red cloth hung out of an old window. "Nice bit of color," he
continued; and without moving his head he transferred his half-closed
gaze to me. "Composes well," he pursued. "Make a nice thing." He spoke
in a hard vulgar voice.

"I see you have a great deal of eye," I replied. "Your cousin tells
me you are studying art." He looked at me in the same way without
answering, and I went on with deliberate urbanity, "I suppose you are at
the studio of one of those great men."

Still he looked at me, and then he said softly, "Gerome."

"Do you like it?" I asked.

"Do you understand French?" he said.

"Some kinds," I answered.

He kept his little eyes on me; then he said, "J'adore la peinture!"

"Oh, I understand that kind!" I rejoined. Miss Spencer laid her hand
upon her cousin's arm with a little pleased and fluttered movement;
it was delightful to be among people who were on such easy terms with
foreign tongues. I got up to take leave, and asked Miss Spencer where,
in Paris, I might have the honor of waiting upon her. To what hotel
would she go?

She turned to her cousin inquiringly, and he honored me again with his
little languid leer. "Do you know the Hotel des Princes?"

"I know where it is."

"I shall take her there."

"I congratulate you," I said to Caroline Spencer. "I believe it is the
best inn in the world; and in case I should still have a moment to call
upon you here, where are you lodged?"

"Oh, it's such a pretty name," said Miss Spencer gleefully. "A la Belle
Normande."

As I left them her cousin gave me a great flourish with his picturesque
hat.

III.

My sister, as it proved, was not sufficiently restored to leave Havre by
the afternoon train; so that, as the autumn dusk began to fall, I found
myself at liberty to call at the sign of the Fair Norman. I must confess
that I had spent much of the interval in wondering what the disagreeable
thing was that my charming friend's disagreeable cousin had been telling
her. The "Belle Normande" was a modest inn in a shady bystreet, where it
gave me satisfaction to thi