about half past eleven
We were now among equals ; the bottle passed , the conversation sped . I think I can still hear the Stennis brothers pour forth their copious tirades ; Dijon , my portly French fellow-student , drop witticisms well-conditioned like himself ; and another -LRB- who was weak in foreign languages -RRB- dash hotly into the current of talk with some `` Je trove que pore oon sontimong de delicacy , Corot ... , '' or some `` Pour moi Corot est le plou ... , '' and then , his little raft of French foundering at once , scramble silently to shore again . He at least could understand ; but to Pinkerton , I think the noise , the wine , the sun , the shadows of the leaves , and the esoteric glory of being seated at a foreign festival , made up the whole available means of entertainment . We sat down about half past eleven ; I suppose it was two when , some point arising and some particular picture being instanced , an adjournment to the Louvre was proposed . I paid the score , and in a moment we were trooping down the Rue de Renne . It was smoking hot ; Paris glittered with that superficial brilliancy which is so agreeable to the man in high spirits , and in moods of dejection so depressing ; the wine sang in my ears , it danced and brightened in my eyes . The pictures that we saw that afternoon , as we sped briskly and loquaciously through the immortal galleries , appear to me , upon a retrospect , the loveliest of all ; the comments we exchanged to have touched the highest mark of criticism , grave or gay .