He took a great interest in Isabel and remembered perfectly the walk at Neufchatel, when she would persist in going so near the edge. He seemed to recognise this same tendency in the subversive enquiry that I quoted a moment ago, and set himself to answer our heroine＇s question with greater urbanity than it perhaps deserved. "What does it lead to, Miss Archer?Why Paris leads everywhere. You can＇t go anywhere unless you come here first. Every one that comes to Europe has got to pass through. You don＇t mean it in that sense so much? You mean what good it does you?Well, how can you penetrate futurity? How can you tell what lies ahead? If it＇s a pleasant road I don＇t care where it leads. I like the road, Miss Archer; I like the dear old asphalte. You can＇t get tired of it—you can＇t if you try. You think you would, but you wouldn＇t;there＇s always something new and fresh. Take the H?tel Drouot, now; they sometimes have three and four sales a week. Where can you get such things as you can here? In spite of all they say I maintain they＇re cheaper too, if you know the right places. I know plenty of places, but I keep them to myself.I＇ll tell you, if you like, as a particular favour; only you mustn＇t tell any one else. Don＇t you go anywhere without asking me first; I want you to promise me that. As a general thing avoid the Boulevards; there＇s very little to be done on the Boulevards. Speaking conscientiously—sans blague—I don＇t believe any one knows Paris better than I. You and Mrs. Touchett must come and breakfast with me some day, and I＇ll show you my things; je ne vous dis que ?a! There has been a great deal of talk about London of late; it＇s the fashion to cry up London. But there＇s nothing in it—you can＇t do anything in London. No Louis Quinze—nothing of the First Empire; nothing but their eternal Queen Anne. It＇s good for one＇s bed-room, Queen Anne—for one＇s washing-room; but it isn＇t proper for a salon.Do I spend my life at the auctioneer＇s?" Mr. Rosier pursued in answer to another question of Isabel＇s. "Oh no; I haven＇t the means. I wish I had. You think I＇m a mere tri昀er; I can tell by the expression of your face—you＇ve got a wonderfully expressive face. I hope you don＇t mind my saying that; I mean it as a kind of warning. You think I ought to do something, and so do I, so long as you leave it vague. But when you come to the point you see you have to stop. I can＇t go home and be a shopkeeper. You think I＇m very well fitted?Ah, Miss Archer, you overrate me. I can buy very well, but I can＇t sell; you should see when I sometimes try to get rid of my things. It takes much more ability to make other people buy than to buy yourself. When I think how clever they must be, the people who make me buy! Ah no; I couldn＇t be a shopkeeper. I can＇t be a doctor; it＇s a repulsive business. I can＇t be a clergyman; I haven＇t got convictions. And then I can＇t pronounce the names right in the Bible. They＇re very dif昀cult, in the Old Testament particularly. I can＇t be a lawyer; I don＇t understand—how do you call it?—the American procedure. Is there anything else? There＇s nothing for a gentleman in America. I should like to be a diplomatist; but American diplomacy—that＇s not for gentlemen either. I＇m sure if you had seen the last min—"