Later on Mr. Fletcher, having returned to the hotel for dinner, noticed above the mantelpiece of the salle-a-manger the picture of a man. The portrait was in oils, and life-size. The man was leaning over a table, staring the spectator in the face. It was in the modern style of French sensation – the man seemed actually alive! But, in its way, it was distinctly a work of art. Mr. Fletcher asked the Breton maid, who brought in his soup, who the original was.
“It is the patron – the husband of madame. It is a good likeness. But, for me, I do not like it. Whenever I look at it I think that he is going to leap at me across the table.”
The idea was not inapt; he did look as though he were about to spring.
“Wasn’t he a little man?”
“But a dwarf. That is how he was so good a rider.”
The face
