_Eh, bien_, Paris is not New York, no." Having sufficiently humbled Paris, he withdrew into the background, rubbing his hands as if he were cleansing them of something unsightly.

Brock spread one of the buttered biscuits with honey and inwardly admitted that Paris was _not_ New York.
He was a good-looking chap of thirty or thereabouts, an American to the core,--bright-eyed, keen-witted, smooth-faced, virile.

From boyhood's earliest days he had spent a portion of his summers in Europe.

Two or three years of his life had been employed in the Beaux Arts,--fruitful years, for Brock had not wasted his opportunities.

He had gone in for architecture and building.