"Live and learn! Come along!"
Together they stepped into the roadway, where the frosty surface was scarred by the soldiers' feet, and together they reached the doorway of the large building and read the legend, "Soctiété Peintres et Sculpteurs Français."
The Irishman read the words with the faintly humorous, faintly sceptical glance that he seemed to bestow upon the world at large.
"Remember I'm throwing out no bait, but I expect 'twill be value for a couple of francs."
They entered the bare hall and, mounting a cold and rigid staircase, found themselves confronted by a turnstile.
The Irishman was in the act of laying a two-franc piece in the hand of the custodian when the boy plucked him by the sleeve and, turning, he saw the curious eyes full of a sudden anxiety.
"Monsieur, pardon me! You know Paris well?"
"I live here for five months out of the twelve."
"Then you can tell me if—if this exhibition will be well attended. I want with all my heart to see the pictures, but I—I dislike crowds—fashionable crowds." His voice was agitated; it was as if he had suddenly awakened from his pleasant dream of Bohemian comradeship to a remembrance of the Paris that lay about him.
The Irishman expressed no surprise: his only reply was to move nearer to the guardian of the turnstile.