"

"I don't smoke," said Newman.

"A drink, then."

And Mr. Tristram led his companion away. They passed through the
glorious halls of the Louvre, down the staircases, along the cool, dim
galleries of sculpture, and out into the enormous court. Newman looked
about him as he went, but he made no comments, and it was only when they
at last emerged into the open air that he said to his friend, "It seems
to me that in your place I should have come here once a week."

"Oh, no you wouldn't!" said Mr. Tristram. "You think so, but you
wouldn't. You wouldn't have had time. You would always mean to go, but
you never would go. There's better fun than that, here in Paris. Italy's
the place to see pictures; wait till you get there. There you have to
go; you can't do anything else. It's an awful country; you can't get a
decent cigar. I don't know why I went in there, to-day; I was strolling
along, rather hard up for amusement. I sort of noticed the Louvre as I
passed, and I thought I would go in and see what was going on. But if I
hadn't found you there I should have felt rather sold. Hang it, I don't
care for pictures; I prefer the reality!" And Mr. Tristram tossed off
this happy formula with an assurance which the numerous class of persons
suffering from an overdose of "culture" might have envied him.

The two gentlemen proceeded along the Rue de Rivoli and into the
Palais Royal, where they seated themselves at one of the little tables
stationed at the door of the cafe which projects into the great open
quadrangle. The place was filled with people, the fountains were
spouting, a band was playing, clusters of chairs were gathered beneath
all the lime-trees, and buxom, white-capped nurses, seated along the
benches, were offering to their infant charges the amplest facilities
for nutrition. There was an easy, homely gayety in the whole scene, and
Christopher Newman felt that it was most characteristically Parisian.

"And now," began Mr. Tristram, when they had tested the decoction
which he had caused to be served to them, "now just give an account of
yourself. What are your ideas, what are your plans, where have you
come from and where are you going? In the first place, where are you
staying?"

"At the Grand Hotel," said Newman.

Mr. Tristram puckered his plump visage. "That won't do! You must
change."

"Change?" demanded Newman. "Why, it's the finest hotel I ever was in."

"You don't want a 'fine' hotel; you want somethin