“You are supposed to know French,” Wynne heard the elder man say, “then why not ask some one how we get into the place.”
“I can’t,” replied the son.
“Well, all I can say is it seems a very funny thing.”
While conversing they failed to observe the approach of an official guide, who, complete with ingratiating smile and a parchment of credentials, offered to pilot them round the galleries.
At this they at once took flight, with much head-shaking and confusion, and had the misfortune to run into the arms of two more of the fraternity. These two importuned them afresh.
“Certainly not,” said the paterfamilias, as though he had been asked to participate in some very disgraceful orgy.
An Englishman always runs away from a guide, although sooner or later he becomes a victim.
Being aware of this fact, one, more assiduous than the rest, followed them closely with invitations and beseechings, and headed them toward the spot where Wynne was standing. It was clear that the unhappy people were greatly unnerved, and equally clear that in a moment they would cease to retreat, and surrender.
Perceiving this, Wynne was conceived of an idea, and as they came abreast he brought to bear upon the guide with a quick barrage of Paris invective. In effect his words were: “These people are my friends—get out,” although he coloured up the phrase with some generosity. The victory was instantaneous, and a moment later he had raised his hat and was saying:
“I don’t think you will be bothered any more.”