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 He packed his bags again and bought a ticket for Paris, simply because there seemed no other city for the son of the Professor Thanet to go to. All my things are there, he excused himself, and I guess my soul is still flying about the ville lumière, with whatever wings it's got left.

The endless tunnels, the heat and the dust, the discomfort of trying to wedge oneself between German tourists who were ever so grave and solid, and forever slowly nibbling at cheese or cakes or grapes out of paper bags that crackled and never got empty, but were merely filed for future reference!

At Ventimiglia there was the usual paralyzing wait for the customs inspection, and an inadequate supply of porters. As usual he was one of the last to be waited on, and as he came away from the shed, trying to remember the respective pockets for his keys and his money and his ticket and his passport he found himself stemming the tide of an influx of passengers from a train bound in the opposite direction.

Keeping an eye on his particular porter, and jostling his way through, he came face to face with a woman, the sight of whom caused him to stop dead in his tracks. In the next moment she had noticed him too, and also stopped dead, with a comic precision. Then he fought his way toward her, for it was Sophie Scantleberry, and the tall ruddy man beside her was her husband.

They exchanged what hurried remarks they could