"Monsieur," he said in French, "have the goodness to inform me how many
persons have passed through the turnstile this morning?"

The man looked at him without interest, though with some surprise. 'Not
many of the world were to be seen at such an hour,' he informed him.
'So far, he had admitted two gentlemen--artists, and three
ladies--American.'

The Irishman waved his hand toward the turnstile.

"In with you! The world forgetting, by the world forgot!"

His ease of manner was contagious. Whatever misgivings had assailed the
boy were banished with this reassurance, and his confidence flowed back
as the custodian took the two-franc piece and the turnstile clicked
twice, making them free of the long, bare galleries that opened in front
of them.

Inured as he was to cold, he shivered as they passed into the first of
these long rooms, and involuntarily buried his chin in the collar of his
coat. The chill of the place was vaultlike; the cold, gray light that
penetrated it held nothing of the sun's comfort, while the small, black
stove set in the middle of the room was a mere travesty of warmth.

"God bless my soul!" began the Irishman, "this is art for art's sake--"

But there he stopped, for his companion, with the impetuosity of his
temperament, had suddenly caught sight of a picture that interested him,
and had darted across the room, leaving him to his own reflections.