The Louvre, I acknowledge, is worthy of a second visit.
But I don't believe we'll have time to get round again." "We've got to get a hustle on ourselves in a day or two," said Mr.Malt, as we separated for the night.

"There's all Italy and Switzerland waiting for us, and they're bound to be done, because we've got circular tickets.

But there's something about this town that I hate to leave." "He doesn't know whether it's the Arc de Triomphe on the Bois de Boulogne or the Opera Comique, or what," said Mrs.Malt in affectionate criticism.

"But we've been here a week over our time now, and he doesn't seem able to tear himself away." "I'll tell you what it is," exclaimed Mr.Malt, producing a newspaper, "it's this little old _New York Herald_.

There's no use comparing it with any American newspaper, and it wouldn't be fair to do so; but I wonder these French rags, in a foreign tongue, aren't ashamed to be published in the same capital with it.