“And come to Paris to spend it, eh?” 

 “Well, we shall see. So they carry those parasols here—the men-folk?” 

 “Of course they do. They’re great things. They understand comfort out here.” 

 “Where do you buy them?” 

 “Anywhere, everywhere.” 

 “Well, Tristram, I’m glad to get hold of you. You can show me the ropes. I suppose you know Paris inside out.” 

 Mr. Tristram gave a mellow smile of self-gratulation. “Well, I guess there are not many men that can show me much. I’ll take care of you.” 

 “It’s a pity you were not here a few minutes ago. I have just bought a picture. You might have put the thing through for me.” 

 “Bought a picture?” said Mr. Tristram, looking vaguely round at the walls. “Why, do they sell them?” 

 “I mean a copy.” 

 “Oh, I see. These,” said Mr. Tristram, nodding at the Titians and Vandykes, “these, I suppose, are originals.” 

 “I hope so,” cried Newman. “I don’t want a copy of a copy.” 

 “Ah,” said Mr. Tristram, mysteriously, “you can never tell. They imitate, you know, so deucedly well. It’s like the jewellers, with their false stones. Go into the Palais Royal, there; you see ‘Imitation’ on half the windows. The law obliges them to stick it on, you know; but you can’t tell the things apart. To tell the truth,” Mr. Tristram continued, with a wry face, “I don’t do much in pictures. I leave that to my wife.” 

 “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’Iéna.” 

 “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.” 

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