His eyes feasted on the broad boulevards—the _cafés_, with their little tables set upon the pavement beneath the gay striped awning—the unfamiliar cosmopolitan crowds who jostled along or sat sipping their syros and bocks at pleasant ease. Also it was very wonderful to be driving on the wrong side of the road and apparently ignoring all traffic laws. Once a gendarme with a long, clattering sword held up his hand to bid them stop, but him the driver ignored, beyond a sharp rattle of criticism as they brushed by. At the corner of the Rue St. Honoré a _fiacre_ in front knocked a man off his bicycle, and proceeded as though nothing had happened. The unfortunate cyclist picked himself up and started in pursuit, leaving his bicycle lying in the highway. A motor bus, considering such an obstacle unworthy of changing its course to avoid, ran over it, crushing the frame and rims, and Wynne’s cab, following behind, did likewise. Nobody seemed to care. Passers-by scarcely wasted a glance over the affair. A desire to cheer possessed Wynne. It seemed he had arrived at the City of Harlequinade, where the wildest follies were counted to be wise. Further down the road a fight was in progress. No blows were exchanged, but the disputants grabbed and clawed at each other’s clothing. They ripped out neckties and tore the buttons from waistcoats. They stamped upon and kicked each other’s hats—pockets were wrenched from coats, and shirt-tails sprang unexpectedly to view. Wynne could not help thinking how funny it would be if Wallace were to appear in Wimbledon High Street with a battered silk hat and his shirt-tail flapping over his breeches. There was humour in this fight which seemed to justify it—not blood and staggering figures, such as one saw outside the publichouses at home on a Saturday night. Wynne blessed the old gentleman of the National Gallery who had inspired him to come to Paris. They passed a great _magasin_ with blazed arch lights, and turned up a tiny street to the left. Wynne caught a glimpse of its name as the cab turned the corner. “Rue Croix des Petits Champs.” Then the vehicle stopped abruptly—so abruptly that the nearside horse fell to his knees and nearly dragged the driver from the box, who marked his disapproval by liberal use of the whip. Order being restored, he pointed to a big arched doorway and cried: “Voilà! Voilà!” So Wynne alighted and demanded: “Comme bien?” “Cinq francs quatre-vingt-cinq.” Wynne was unaccustomed to French money, and the centimes conveyed nothing to him. He proffered four francs and was amazed at the flow of incomprehensible invective which followed. It was impossible to argue at anything approaching that speed, so he held up his palm with some silver in it and said: “Alors prenez ce que vous voulez.” The driver accordingly appropriated eight francs, and with a cry of “’Voir et merci,” whipped up his horses and vanished into the night.