One day the Frenchman, accompanied by his father-in-law, stopped me at a street corner down near Washington Square, climbed up beside my driver, and rode to the end of the route.

Here, thought I, is where I get a little appreciation.
Here is a critic from the older civilization, a man with a proper reverence for the past, who can look beyond the freshness of varnish.

I have a right to expect something in the nature of consideration from him.

Bah! All he said was: 'Among the splendid carriages and the high-priced automobiles, perhaps to prove that we are in a land of freedom, the black, dirty, wretched omnibuses ply from one end of the Avenue to the other.' Honest now, wouldn't it jar you?
"I called you Mr.Washington Arch just now.

I was wrong," the accents were now no longer plaintive, but raucous and sneering.