Hang it, I don't care for pictures; I prefer the reality!" And Mr.Tristram tossed off this happy formula with an assurance which the numerous class of persons suffering from an overdose of "culture" might have envied him.
The two gentlemen proceeded along the Rue de Rivoli and into the Palais Royal, where they seated themselves at one of the little tables stationed at the door of the cafe which projects into the great open quadrangle.

The place was filled with people, the fountains were spouting, a band was playing, clusters of chairs were gathered beneath all the lime-trees, and buxom, white-capped nurses, seated along the benches, were offering to their infant charges the amplest facilities for nutrition.

There was an easy, homely gayety in the whole scene, and Christopher Newman felt that it was most characteristically Parisian.
"And now," began Mr.Tristram, when they had tested the decoction which he had caused to be served to them, "now just give an account of yourself.

What are your ideas, what are your plans, where have you come from and where are you going?
In the first place, where are you staying ?" "At the Grand Hotel," said Newman.
Mr.Tristram puckered his plump visage.

"That won't do! You must change." "Change ?" demanded Newman.