“Ah, you have got a wife?”

“Didn’t I mention it?  She’s a very nice woman; you must know her.  She’s up there in the Avenue d’Iena.”

“So you are regularly fixed—­house and children and all.”

“Yes, a tip-top house and a couple of youngsters.”

“Well,” said Christopher Newman, stretching his arms a little, with a sigh, “I envy you.”

“Oh no! you don’t!” answered Mr. Tristram, giving him a little poke with his parasol.

“I beg your pardon; I do!”

“Well, you won’t, then, when—­when—­”

“You don’t certainly mean when I have seen your establishment?”

“When you have seen Paris, my boy.  You want to be your own master here.”

“Oh, I have been my own master all my life, and I’m tired of it.”

“Well, try Paris.  How old are you?”

“Thirty-six.”

“C’est le bel age, as they say here.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that a man shouldn’t send away his plate till he has eaten his fill.”

“All that?  I have just made arrangements to take French lessons.”

“Oh, you don’t want any lessons.  You’ll pick it up.  I never took any.”

“I suppose you speak French as well as English?”

“Better!” said Mr. Tristram, roundly.  “It’s a splendid language.  You can say all sorts of bright things in it.”

“But I suppose,” said Christopher Newman, with an earnest desire for information, “that you must be bright to begin with.”

“Not a bit; that’s just the beauty of it.”

The two friends, as they exchanged these remarks, had remained standing where they met, and leaning against the rail which protected the pictures.  Mr. Tristram at last declared that he was overcome with fatigue and should be happy to sit down.  Newman recommended in the highest terms the great divan on which he had been lounging, and they prepared to seat themselves.  “This is a great place; isn’t it?” said Newman, with ardor.

“Great place, great place.  Finest thing in the world.”  And then, suddenly, Mr. Tristram hesitated and looked about him.  “I suppose they won’t let you smoke here.”

Newman stared.  “Smoke?  I’m sure I don’t know.  You know the regulations better than I.”

“I?  I never was here before!”

“Never! in six years?”

“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.”