They arrived in Calais where the wind by the docks smelled of soaked wood and coffee. The first few hours traveling by train to Paris Lilian could not help think of her old friend, Walter Vail. She had pictured him here so often. So these were the yellow stripes of field he might have looked at, and these the dining car menus he was used to reading. She thought of him not with the old deep feeling but more mildly, in a sort of daydream. As one often feels in a foreign place, she half-expected to meet him at any moment — perhaps he was even on the train! Though he was revisiting her thoughts, he had long ago ceased to have any influence over her. So what if she did meet him? She would greet him warmly, in a way which would show him he’d long since been out of her mind. He, too, would act as if they’d meant nothing to each other, that nothing had taken place between them. Of course, on his side it was true. She had come to accept that. Perhaps his wife would be with him — yes, coming up from behind with a smart coat on and a stole. Darling, he would say, Véronique … and the brim of her hat would touch his shoulder. Lilian would shake the slip of a pale kid glove, look directly into her almond-shaped eyes. So nice to meet you, she’d say. Was she well? Walter Vail would be polite, his posture stiffened awkwardly. Never better, she would say and tell him of her engagement. Why that was wonderful news, congratulations. No he didn’t think he’d met Gilbert Finch … Now her mother would be calling her — they were at the train station, people walking crisply by, and they would both have to hurry off … And after, Lilian couldn’t help wishing him the tiniest bit of trouble, after what she’d been through on his account. Afterwards, his wife would press him about her — who was this girl from Boston? How good une amie? They would quarrel! Lilian meanwhile would leave the meeting serene, having seen his face, and seen that it was not the face she loved, not anymore.

Her heart beat faster, envisioning the scene. As she watched the wet ditches fly past below she found herself recalling some of the old hurt, and how unlike Gilbert he was, Gilbert whose face was so open that when an emotion appeared on it there was no chance of mistaking it for something else. Lilian thought of his face, savoring those qualities, yet seeing her own reflection over the countryside, she found it difficult to picture exactly.

In Paris, they stayed next door to where Empress Josephine had lived. She had walked in the same park and Arthur reported that she’d changed her clothes three times a day, though Mrs. Eliot remained unimpressed.