“Too French for words,” continued Miss Callis.  “The poet Lamartine, with a note-book and pencil in his hand, seated in a triumphal chariot, drawn through the clouds by beautiful Muses.”

“Oh,” said momma, in a relieved voice, “there’s nothing so dreadfully French about that.”

“You should have seen it,” said Miss Callis.  “It was simply immoral.  Lamartine was in a frock coat!”

“There could have been nothing objectionable in that,” momma repeated.  “I suppose the Muses——­”

“The Muses were not in frock coats.  They were dressed in their traditions,” replied Miss Callis, “but they couldn’t save the situation, poor dears.”

Momma looked as if she wished she had the courage to ask Miss Callis to explain.

“In picture galleries,” remarked poppa, “we’ve seen only the Luxembourg and the Louvre.  The Louvre, I acknowledge, is worthy of a second visit.  But I don’t believe we’ll have time to get round again.”

“We’ve got to get a hustle on ourselves in a day or two,” said Mr. Malt, as we separated for the night.  “There’s all Italy and Switzerland waiting for us, and they’re bound to be done, because we’ve got circular tickets.  But there’s something about this town that I hate to leave.”

“He doesn’t know whether it’s the Arc de Triomphe on the Bois de Boulogne or the Opera Comique, or what,” said Mrs. Malt in affectionate criticism.  “But we’ve been here a week over our time now, and he doesn’t seem able to tear himself away.”

“I’ll tell you what it is,” exclaimed Mr. Malt, producing a newspaper, “it’s this little old New York Herald.  There’s no use comparing it with any American newspaper, and it wouldn’t be fair to do so; but I wonder these French rags, in a foreign tongue, aren’t ashamed to be published in the same capital with it.  It doesn’t take above a quarter of an hour to read in the mornings, but it’s a quarter of an hour of solid comfort that you don’t expect somehow abroad.  If the New York Herald were only published in Rome I wouldn’t mind going there.”

“There’s something,” said poppa, thoughtfully, as we ascended to the third floor, “in what Malt says.”

Next day we spent an hour buying trunks for the accommodation of the unattainable elsewhere.  Then poppa reminded us that we had an important satisfaction yet to experience.  “Business before pleasure,” he said, “certainly.  But we’ve been improving our minds pretty hard for the last few days, and I feel the need of a little relaxation.  D.V. and W.P., I propose this afternoon to make the ascent of the Eiffel Tower.  Are you on?”

“I will accompany you, Alexander, if it is safe,” said momma, “and, if it is unsafe, I couldn’t possibly let you go without me.”

Momma is naturally a person of some timidity, but when the Senator proposes to incur any danger, she always suggests that he shall do it over her dead body.