We sat down about half-past eleven; I suppose it was
two when, some point arising and some particular
picture being instanced, an adjournment to the Louvre
was proposed. I paid the score, and in a moment we
were trooping down the Rue de Renne. It was smoking
hot; Paris glittered with that superficial brilliancy
which is so agreeable to the man in high spirits, and
in moods of dejection so depressing; the wine sang in
my ears, it danced and brightened in my eyes. The
pictures that we saw that afternoon, as we sped briskly
and loquaciously through the immortal galleries, appear
to me, upon a retrospect, the loveliest of all; the
comments we exchanged to have touched the highest mark
of criticism, grave or gay.
It was only when we issued again from the museum that a
difference of race broke up the party. Dijon proposed
an adjournment to a cafe, there to finish the afternoon
on beer; the elder Stennis revolted at the thought,
moved for the country--a forest, if possible--and a
long walk. At once the English speakers rallied to the
name of any exercise; even to me, who have been often
twitted with my sedentary habits, the thought of
country air and stillness proved invincibly attractive.
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