THE AMERICAN
assurance. "Come; let's go over to the Palais Royal and have a smoke."
"I don't smoke," said Newman.
"What's that for?" Mr. Tristram growled as he 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 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 'd have come here once a week."
"Oh no, you wouldn't!" said Mr. Tristram. "You think so, but you would n't. You would n't have had time. You 'd 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 into that place to-day. I was strolling along, rather hard up for amusement. I sort of took in the Louvre as I passed, and I thought I might go up and see what was going on. But if I had n't found you there I should have felt rather sold. Hang it, I don't care for inanimate canvas or for cold marble beauty; I prefer the real thing!" And Mr. Tristram tossed off this happy formula with an assurance which the numerous class of persons suffering from an overdose of prescribed taste might have envied him.
The two gentlemen proceeded along the Rue de Rivoli and into the Palais Royal, where they seated
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