But Winterbourne had an old attachment for the little metropolis of Calvinism; he had been put to school there as a boy, and he had afterward gone to college there--circumstances which had led to his forming a great many youthful friendships.
In front of Winterbourne he paused, looking at him with a pair of bright, penetrating little eyes.
Winterbourne glanced at the small table near him, on which his coffee service rested, and saw that several morsels of sugar remained.
He poked his alpenstock, lance-fashion, into Winterbourne's bench and tried to crack the lump of sugar with his teeth.
Winterbourne had immediately perceived that he might have the honor of claiming him as a fellow countryman.
"And are American little boys the best little boys?" asked Winterbourne.
"I see you are one of the best!" laughed Winterbourne.
And then, on Winterbourne's affirmative reply--"American men are the best," he declared.
Winterbourne wondered if he himself had been like this in his infancy, for he had been brought to Europe at about this age.
Winterbourne looked along the path and saw a beautiful young lady advancing.
"I imagine that is your fault, not hers," said Winterbourne. The young lady meanwhile had drawn near.
"This is the way!" And he gave another little jump, scattering the pebbles about Winterbourne's ears.