"We never look at such pictures, Miss Callis," momma interrupted.
"It's so French," said Miss Callis.
Momma drew her shawl round her preparatory to withdrawing, but it was too late.
"Too French for words," continued Miss Callis. "The poet Lamartine, with a note-book and pencil in his hand, seated in a triumphal chariot, drawn through the clouds by beautiful Muses."
"Oh," said momma, in a relieved voice, "there's nothing so dreadfully French about that."
"You should have seen it," said Miss Callis. "It was simply immoral. Lamartine was in a frock coat!"
"There could have been nothing objectionable in that," momma repeated. "I suppose the Muses——"
"The Muses were not in frock coats. They were dressed in their traditions," replied Miss Callis, "but they couldn't save the situation, poor dears."
Momma looked as if she wished she had the courage to ask Miss Callis to explain.
"In picture galleries," remarked poppa, "we've seen only the Luxembourg and the Louvre. The Louvre, I acknowledge, is worthy of a second visit. But I don't believe we'll have time to get round again."