I feel rather ashamed of myself, and my angry eyes peruse the pavement.

Neither does he speak.

Presently I look up at him rather shyly.
"How about the gallery?
the pictures ?" "Do you wish to go there ?" he asks, with rather the air of a polite martyr.

"I shall be happy to take you if you like." "Do!" say I, heartily, "and let us try to be friends, and to spend five minutes without quarreling!" * * * * * We have spent more than five, a great deal more--thirty, forty, perhaps, and our harmony is still unbroken, _uncracked_ even.

We have sat in awed and chastened silence before the divine meekness of the Sistine Madonna.
We have turned away in disgust from Jordain's brutish "Triumphs of Silenus," and tiresome repetitions of Hercules in drink.