"I suppose you speak French as well as English?"

"Better!" said Mr. Tristram, roundly. "It's a splendid language. You can
say all sorts of bright things in it."

"But I suppose," said Christopher Newman, with an earnest desire for
information, "that you must be bright to begin with."

"Not a bit; that's just the beauty of it."

The two friends, as they exchanged these remarks, had remained standing
where they met, and leaning against the rail which protected the
pictures. Mr. Tristram at last declared that he was overcome with
fatigue and should be happy to sit down. Newman recommended in the
highest terms the great divan on which he had been lounging, and they
prepared to seat themselves. "This is a great place; isn't it?" said
Newman, with ardor.

"Great place, great place. Finest thing in the world." And then,
suddenly, Mr. Tristram hesitated and looked about him. "I suppose they
won't let you smoke here."

Newman stared. "Smoke? I'm sure I don't know. You know the regulations
better than I."

"I? I never was here before!"

"Never! in six years?"