"It's all in the accent," protested the other. I occupied a narrow
seat in the front. Facing me in the back seat, they lolled easily and
smoked their cigars. Down the thronged boulevard we proceeded at a
rapid pace and were passing presently before an immense gray edifice
which I recognized as the so-called Louvre from its illustration on
the cover of Cousin Egbert's art book. He himself regarded it with
interest, though I fancy he did not recognize it, for, waving his
cigar toward it, he announced to his friend:
"The Public Library." His friend surveyed the building with every sign
of approval.
"That Carnegie is a hot sport, all right," he declared warmly. "I'll
bet that shack set him back some."
"Three rousing cheers!" said Cousin Egbert, without point that I could
detect.
We now crossed their Thames over what would have been Westminster
Bridge, I fancy, and were presently bowling through a sort of
Battersea part of the city. The streets grew quite narrow and the
shops smaller, and I found myself wondering not without alarm what
sort of restaurant our abrupt friend had chosen.
"Three rousing cheers!" said Cousin Egbert from time to time, with
almost childish delight.
Debouching from a narrow street again into what the French term a
boulevard, we halted before what was indeed a restaurant, for several
tables were laid on the pavement before the door, but I saw at once
that it was anything but a nice place.
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