I came up into fresh air again at the Tuileries station. As my eyes adjusted to bright light I just stood there, rooted to the spot, while other passengers jostled past me. I had never seen anything so magnificent in my life. Apart from New York the only city I had seen was Dublin, which was fair enough in its way, with its squares of elegant Georgian buildings. But this was glorious. On the other side of a broad boulevard a long colonnade of buttery stone buildings, perfectly proportioned, stretched as far as the eye could see. On my side were wrought-iron railings and behind them some fine-looking gardens and what appeared to be a palace beyond. This was finally the Paris I had dreamed of when the Hartleys’ governess told us about her travels and showed me postcards she had brought home with her.

I decided to start my inquiries at the Ritz, since that was a hotel everyone, including myself, had heard of. I stopped a policeman, looking very smart in his uniform with its high-crowned blue cap, and asked directions. I realized then the benefits of wearing Dodo’s clothes. The policeman addressed me as if I was a person who would naturally want to know where the Ritz hotel was. “Only a little way, madame. Follow this street, take the next turning to the right and you will come to the Place Vendôme. You will see the column and behind it the Ritz hotel itself. Only a short stroll on such a fine spring day.”

Then he saluted and I thanked him, walking along the boulevard, admiring the shops beneath the colonnade and the carousels in the park to my left. It was the sort of place I’d have liked to linger, but I pressed on around the corner and saw the column he had spoken about ahead of me. It was tall and green and looked like something that might have come from ancient Egypt. And behind it that glorious curved creamy stone building with the flags flying outside had to be the Ritz.

I had to pluck up courage before I went in through those impressive doors. I half expected the doorman to stop me but he opened the door for me and said “Bonjour, madame,” in a way that made me realize he also thought I might belong there. So there really was something to that old adage “clothes make the man.” I looked around, wondering whom to ask, when a most superior young man in a black suit and high collar approached me.

“May I assist you, madame?” he asked in English.

“I hope so,” I replied, relieved that I didn’t have to explain in French. “I wondered if you could tell me the address of the American painter Reynold Bryce. I have been asked to visit him, but I have mislaid his address.”