“I am silent, like the ‘G’ in chantong,” replied Wynne. He had begun to feel the spice of adventure in bartering, and would not give ground.
“We mustn’t forget we are on a holiday,” the mother reminded them.
“Let it go,” said the father; “and I only hope it will be worth it.”
“I can promise you it will be more than worth it,” said Wynne, and led the way to the entrance.
As they mounted the stairs, blotchy Vincent plucked at his sleeve and asked, sotto voce:
“I say, do you know Paris well?”
“Intimately. Why?”
“I only wondered.”
He nodded toward his parents and shook his head mysteriously.
Wynne was not entirely easy with his conscience at having accepted the post of guide, and determined to justify himself by a great liberality of artistic expression. He therefore began to talk with exceeding rapidity the moment they entered the first gallery.