“Ladies—­and genelmen,” he said—­he always added the gentleman as if they were an after-thought—­“you are mos’ fortunate, mos’ locky. Tout Paris—­all the folks—­are still driving their ‘orse an’ carriage ’ere.  One week more—­the style will be all gone—­what you say—­vamoosed?  Every mother’s son!  An’ Cook’s excursion party won’t see nothin’ but ole cabs goin’ along!”

“Can’t we get away from them?” asked the serious person.  It was humorously intended—­certainly a liberty, and the guide was down on it in an instant.

“Get away from them?  Not if they know you’re here!”

At which the serious man looked still more serious, and sympathy for him sprang up in every heart.

We passed Longchamps at a steady trot, and the guide’s statement that the races there were always held on Sunday was received with a silence that evidently disappointed him.  It was plain that he had a withering rejoinder ready for sabbatarians, and he waited anxiously, balanced on one foot, for an expression of shocked opinion.  It was after we had passed Mont Valerien, frowning on the horizon, that the man in the pink cotton shirt began to grow restive under so much instruction.  He told the serious person that his name was Hinkson of Iowa, and the serious person was induced to reply that his was Pabbley of Simcoe, Ontario.  It was insubordination—­the guide was talking about the shelling from Mont Valerien at the time, with the most patriotic dislocations in his grammar.

“You understan’, you see?” he concluded.  “Now those two genelmen, they don’ understan’, and they don’ see.  An’ when they get back to the United States they won’ be able to tell their wives an’ sweethearts anythin’ about Mont Valerien!  All right, genelmen—­please yourselves. Mais you please remember I am just like William Shekspeare—­I give no repetition!”

It was then that the serious man demonstrated that Britons, even the North American kind, never, never would be slaves.  Placing his black silk hat carefully a little further back on his head, he leaned forward.

“Now look here, mister,” he said, “you’re as personal as a Yankee newspaper.  So far as I know, you’re not the friend of my childhood, nor the companion of my later years, except for this trip only, and I’d just as soon you realised it.  As far as I know, you’re paid to point out objects of historical interest.  Don’t you trouble to entertain us any further than that.  We’ll excuse you!”

“Ladies—­an’ genelmen,” continued the guide calmly, “in a lil’ short while we shall be approached to the town of St. Cloud.  At that town of St. Cloud will be one genelman will take the excellen’ group—­fotograff.  To appear in that fotograff, you will please all keep together with me.  Afterwards, you will look at the fountains, at the magnificent panorama de Paris, and we go on to Versailles.  On the return journey, if you like that fotograff you can buy, if you don’t like, you don’ buy.  An’ if you got no wife an’ no sweetheart all the same you keep your temper!”