I thought it an admissible term, and said so, adding, “or a fashion-plate artist?”
“Surely,” replied the stranger. “A distinction without a difference, is it not?”
No more was said for the moment, while I sat covertly studying the speaker. He reminded me a little of the portraits of Thiers, only without the spectacles. A placid, well-nourished benevolence had been his prominent feature, were it not somehow for the qualification of the eyes. Those were as perpetually alert, busy, observant, as the rest was seemingly supine. They appeared to “peck” for interests among the moving throng, as a hen pecks for scattered grain.
“Wonderful hands,” he said suddenly, coming back to the artist. “Do you notice anything characteristic about them now?”
“No,” I said. “What?”
He did not answer, but applied for a refreshing moment or two to his grenadine.
“Ah!” he said, leaning back again, with a relishing motion of his lips. “A comfortable seat and a cool glass, and we have here the best café-chantant in the world.”
“Well, it suits me,” I agreed—“to pass the time.”
“Ah!” he said, “your friend is unpunctual?”
I yawned inexcusably.