Jane looked at him intently. He was a little man, of twenty-six or seven, with a rosy face, a pug nose, and bright blue eyes, like pieces of Dutch china. His straw colored hair was combed down on his forehead, curled slightly around his ears, and grew down the nape of his neck. He wore a tiny moustache, which seemed to have no kinship with either his hair or his eyebrows, for where these last were almost flaxen, the stiff fringe on his upper lip was as red as rust. Yet he was a pleasant looking young man; the simplicity and earnestness of his expression, even his frank satisfaction with himself, made one like him in spite of all his absurdities.
“Now, you’re putting in the cows, aren’t you?” inquired Jane, respectfully.
“Yes, indeed. I am going to put in three cows—three is rather a symbolic number, you know. Faith, Hope and Charity—Good, Better, Best, so—so many things run in threes. I should like to suggest the number Three to the spectator—in fact, that’s really what I’m driving at.”
It seemed a quaint idea to Jane, but original.
“Do you—do you live in Frederickstown?” she ventured, presently.
“No. I regret to say that I am not a native of these delightful environs,” said he, “I am a bird of passage.” He looked at her thoughtfully as he repeated this definition of himself, evidently wondering how she liked “birds of passage.”
“You mean you don’t live anywhere?”
“Just that. All Nature is my home—the trees, the rocks—”
“You live in trees and rocks?” gasped Jane, looking at his dapper little suit, and wondering how it withstood the strain of such habits.
“Figuratively speaking. I confess that at times I inhabit—hotels. Deplorable as such necessity is, still it exists.”