One such grouping, she noticed, was occupied by a group of men deeply engaged in a discussion. Lucy couldn’t understand whatever language they were speaking—it certainly wasn’t French—but it was clear that there was a difference of opinion. She observed a lot of head shaking and waving of hands, until two of the participants stood up, facing off angrily. One, a distinguished-looking man in his midsixties with gray hair, dressed in a beautifully tailored but somewhat out-of-date suit, was attempting to lay down the law to a younger man, who suddenly turned on his heel and marched off in a huff. She watched as he crossed the lobby, guessing that he’d picked up his ill-fitting sport coat in a flea market, and thinking that he looked as if he was going to cry. “Malik!” called the older man, but he didn’t stop.

A slice of life, thought Lucy, who was about to sit down when Elizabeth returned, beaming. Her smile reminded Lucy of the times she had taken her out of school early for one reason or another. Back then, even a dentist appointment was preferable to spending another hour in school. She found Elizabeth’s cheerful attitude reassuring and was relieved to see she hadn’t spent all her time in Paris crying on the phone. She had had her hair styled in a chic new cut and had clearly done some shopping. She was wearing a new chunky scarf slung around her neck, topping an adorable black coat and a pair of high-heeled ankle boots.

“Love your coat,” said Lucy, studying the flattering coat as they went down the stairs to the Grands Boulevards station. It was tightly fitted across the shoulders and bust but fell into loose gathers around the hips.

“Wish I could say the same about yours,” replied Elizabeth, commenting on Lucy’s orange and brown plaid jacket. “You’re not in Tinker’s Cove now, you know.”

“I see you’ve lost none of your, um, spark,” said Lucy as they boarded the train. “I can’t wait to see your apartment.”

“It’s a dump,” grumbled Elizabeth, grabbing the pole as the train started with a jerk.

Lucy glanced around the train, which was filled with people, mostly reading newspapers or consulting their smartphones. They looked quite a lot like New Yorkers, she thought, mostly dressed in black, with well-worn walking shoes. “I have a theory that the people in big cities are all alike,” she said. “They’re citizens of the world. It’s only the country folk who are true to what we think of as French or American.”

“I don’t think that’s necessarily true,” said Elizabeth. “Believe me, Parisians are not at all like Bostonians or New Yorkers. You’ll see what I mean when you meet Sylvie.”