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.” “Very kind of you—very kind,” said the father, mopping his brow. “Great nuisance, these people.” And the lady favoured Wynne with a grateful smile. “You were about to visit the galleries?” “Well, we thought we’d take a look round, you know. The thing to do!” “Oh, quite. Are you familiar with the Louvre?” “Er, no—no. Can’t say we are—no.” “H’m. I was wondering if I should offer to conduct you.” “Hey? Well. Ho! I see! Not a bad idea! What do you say, Ada?” “It would be very nice.” “You do this job, then?” “Occasionally. Not regularly.” “Well, I don’t mind. Got to see the things, I s’pose.” “It is customary, isn’t it?” smiled Wynne. “Hum. How long will it take to do the place?” “Five years—perhaps a little less.” The joke was not well received, so Wynne modified it. “I could show you the more vital points of interest in a couple of hours.” “Two hours, eh? And you’d want how much an hour?” Wynne considered. “Should we say five francs?” he suggested. “Jolly sight too much, I call it,” observed the blotchy youth, whose name was Vincent. “Get a seat at a café chantong for that.” “Well, what do you say?” said the father. “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.”