I had been strolling
with a friend, and we at last prepared to sit down. Chairs, however,
were scarce. I had captured one, but it seemed no easy matter to find a
mate for it. I was on the point of giving up in despair, and proposing
an adjournment to the silken ottomans of the Kursaal, when I observed a
young man lounging back on one of the objects of my quest, with his feet
supported on the rounds of another. This was more than his share of
luxury, and I promptly approached him. He evidently belonged to the race
which has the credit of knowing best, at home and abroad, how to make
itself comfortable; but something in his appearance suggested that his
present attitude was the result of inadvertence rather than of egotism.
He was staring at the conductor of the orchestra and listening intently
to the music. His hands were locked round his long legs, and his mouth
was half open, with rather a foolish air. "There are so few chairs," I
said, "that I must beg you to surrender this second one." He started,
stared, blushed, pushed the chair away with awkward alacrity, and
murmured something about not having noticed that he had it.
"What an odd-looking youth!" said my companion, who had watched me, as I
seated myself beside her.
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