“Augusta,” said poppa, firmly, “I understand your feeling.  I take a human interest in those stores myself, which I do not expect this picture gallery, etc., to inspire in me.  But there the Louvre is, you see, and it’s got to be done.  If we spent our whole time in this city in mere pleasure and amusement, you would be the first to reproach yourself, Augusta.”

A few minutes later, when we had crossed the stone quadrangle and mounted the stairs, and stood with our catalogue in the Salle Lacaze, momma said that she wouldn’t have missed it for anything.  She sank ecstatic upon a bench, and gave to every individual picture upon the opposite wall the tribute of her intensest admiration.  It was a pleasure to see her enjoying herself so much; and poppa and I vainly tried to keep up to her with the catalogue.

“Oh, why haven’t we such things in Chicago!” she exclaimed, at which the Senator checked her mildly.

“It’s a mere question of time,” said he.  “It isn’t reasonable to expect Pre-Raphaelites in a new country.  But give us three or four hundred years, and we’ll produce old masters which, if you ladies will excuse the expression, will knock the spots out of the Middle Ages.”  Poppa is such an optimist about Chicago.

The Senator went on in a strain of criticism of the pictures perfectly moderate and kindly—­nothing he wouldn’t have said to the artists themselves—­until momma interrupted him.  “Don’t you think we might be silent for a time, Alexander,” she said.

Momma does call him Alexander sometimes.  I didn’t like to mention it before, but it can’t be concealed for ever.  She says it’s because Joshua always costs her an effort, and every woman ought to have the right to name her own husband.

“Let us offer to all this genius,” she continued, indicating it, “the tribute of sealing our lips.”

The Senator will always oblige.  “Mine are sealed, Augusta,” he replied, and so we sat in silence for the next ten minutes.  But I could see by his expression, in connection with the angle at which his hat was tipped, that he was comparing the productions before him with the future old masters of Chicago, and wishing it were possible to live long enough to back Chicago.

“How they do sink in!” said momma at last.  “How they sink into the soul!”

“They do,” replied the Senator.  “I don’t deny it.  But I see by the catalogue, counting Salles and Salons and all, there’s seventeen rooms full of them.  If they’re all to sink in, for my part I’ll have to enlarge the premises.  And we’ve been here three-quarters of an hour already, and life is short, Augusta.”

So we moved on where the imperishable faces of Greuze and Velasquez and Rembrandt smiled and frowned and wondered at us.  As poppa said, it was easy to see that these people had ideas, and were simply longing to express them.  “You feel sorry for them,” he said, “just as you feel sorry for an intelligent terrier.  But these poor things can’t even wag their tails!  Just let me know when you’ve had enough, Augusta.”