"I believe my wife dragged me here once when we first came to Paris, but
I never found my way back."

"But you say you know Paris so well!"

"I don't call this Paris!" cried Mr. Tristram, with assurance. "Come;
let's go over to the Palais Royal and have a smoke."

"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