THE AMERICAN
"Did n't I mention it? She's a very smart woman. You must come right round. She's up there in the Avenue d'Iéna."
"So you're regularly fixed—house and children and all?"
"Yes; a tip-top house, and a couple of charming cubs."
"Well," sighed Christopher Newman, stretching his arms a little, "you affect me with a queer feeling that I suppose to be envy."
"Oh no, I don't," answered Mr. Tristram, giving him a little poke with his parasol.
"I beg your pardon; you do."
"Well, I shan't then, when—when—!"
"You don't certainly mean when I've seen your pleasant home?"
"When you've made yours, my boy. When you've seen Paris. You want to be in light marching order here."
"Oh, I've skipped about in my shirt all my life, and I 've had about enough of it."
"Well, try it on the basis of Paris. That makes a new thing of it. How old may you be?"
"Forty-two and a half, I guess."
"C'est le bel âge, as they say here."
Newman reflected. "Does that mean the age of the belly?"
"It means that a man should n't send away his plate till he has eaten his fill."
"It comes to the same thing. I've just made arrangements, anyhow, to take lessons in the language."
"Oh, you don't want any lessons. You'll pick it
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