elling me
this story. He always took care not to hide his light under the least
possibility of a bushel.)

The Ducksmiths looked at him in their lacklustre way, and allowed
themselves to be guided into the picture-galleries, vaguely hearing
Aristide's comments, scarcely glancing at the pictures, and
manifesting no sign of interest in anything whatever. From the Louvre
they drove to Notre Dame, where the same thing happened. The venerable
pile, standing imperishable amid the vicissitudes of centuries (the
phrase was that of the director of the Agence Pujol), stirred in their
bosoms no perceptible emotion. Mr. Ducksmith grunted and declined to
enter; Mrs. Ducksmith said nothing.

As with pictures and cathedrals, so it was with their food at lunch.
Beyond a solemn statement to the effect that in their quality of
practised travellers they made a point of eating the food and drinking
the wine of the country, Mr. Ducksmith did not allude to the meal. At
any rate, thought Aristide, they don't clamour for underdone chops and
tea. So far they were human. Nor did they maintain an awful silence
during the repast. On the contrary, Mr. Ducksmith loved to talk--in a
dismal, pompous way--chiefly of British politics. His method of
discourse was to place himself in the position of those in authority and
to declare what he would do in any given circumstances. Now, unless the
interlocutor adopts the same method and declares what _he_ would do,
conversation is apt to become one-sided. Aristide, having no notion of a
policy should he find himself exercising the functions of the British
Chancellor of the Exchequer, cheerfully tried to change the ground of
debate.

"What would you do, Mr. Ducksmith, if you were King of England?"

"I should try to rule the realm like a Christian statesman," replied Mr.
Ducksmith.

"I should have a devil of a time!" said Aristide.

"I beg your pardon?" said Mr. Ducksmith.

"I should have a--ah, I see--_pardon_. I should----" He looked from
one paralyzing face to the other, and threw out his arms. "_Parbleu!_"
said he, "I should decapitate your Mrs. Grundy, and make it compulsory
for bishops to dance once a week in Trafalgar Square. _Tiens!_ I would
have it a capital offence for any English cook to prepare hashed
mutton without a license, and I would banish all the bakers of the
kingdom to Siberia--ah! your English bread, which you have to eat
stale so as to avoid a horrible death!--and I would open two