“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 âge, 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. 

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