Within the shadow of the shop was discerned a watchful, wrinkled old face, chiefly differing from a parrot's in the slyness of its eyes. Fraisier catching sight of it thought of a witch on guard over a princess enchanted and imprisoned in a glass-case. The little group in front of Madame Finibald's dispersed, formed anew with other faces many times in the hour; Fraisier remained, his eyes climbing up, sliding down the golden ropes of hair. At last, though the girl gave no sign, he was made uncomfortable by the sense that she must, even without looking, have seen how long he stood. He inquired timidly of her face. It was informed with a gentle brazenness, fortified to be stared at all the day. Yet there was a suggestion of childishness in its abstracted expression; she wore the sort of look one has seen on the face of a little girl playing at being somebody else far more splendid than herself. A close observer might have suspected that she really thought it rather grand to sit there in the gorgeousness of her hair, and was amused with pretending not to know that a soul looked on. Fraisier, because her eyes were lowered, found hardihood to stare his fill at her face. He surrendered without struggle before the round cheeks, the short little nose, the good-natured mouth and chin, which, in truth, took more than their just space in the face. But most--oh, still most! delighted him the brown-gold hair that tumbled over her forehead and ears in little curls. He was realizing from the mutterings of what was left him of a conscience how late it must be getting--he must be taking himself off; he was making long the one minute more he allowed himself, when her pupils slid between the lashes in his direction. He had lost all presence of mind, he could not withdraw his glance. After a second's pause upon his, her eyes slid back to her book and were hidden. Then, without another thought towards duty, he crossed the street to the barber's, from whose window he could see Madame Finibald's; and, coming forth with a smoother face than the rose, entered the little eating-shop next door, from which likewise he could command Madame Finibald's. He went through the little street every day. He took many atrocious meals in the shop, on the table nearest the window. On such days as brought perfect weather, the girl in Madame Finibald's would turn very often to the sky a look easily interpreted as longing. Then would Fraisier look up too and sigh. It seemed such a pity, this wasted blue weather.