They strolled through the town, went down to the quays and looked at the fishing-boats; Harry was feeling more at home now, and asked the French name for everything he saw, repeating the word over and over again to himself until he felt sure that he should remember it, and then asking the name of some fresh object.
The next morning they started in the post-waggon for Paris, and arrived there after thirty-six hours' travel.

Harry was struck with the roads, which were far better tended and kept than those in England.

The extreme flatness of the country surprised him, and, except in the quaintness of the villages and the variety of the church towers, he saw little to admire during the journey.
"If it is all like this," he thought to himself, "I don't see that they have any reason for calling it La belle France." Of Paris he saw little.

A blue-bloused porter carried his trunk what seemed to Harry a long distance from the place where the conveyance stopped.

The streets here were quiet and almost deserted after the busy thoroughfares of the central city.