The weather, for this time of year, was unusually bright in Paris.

Each morning glistened with hoar-frost; by noon the sky shone blue over clean, dry streets, and gardens which made a season for themselves, leafless, yet defiant of winter's melancholy.

Lilian saw it all with the eyes of a stranger, and often was able to forget her anxiety in the joy of wonderful, new impressions.
One afternoon she was resting in the room at the hotel, whilst Quarrier went about the town on some business or other.

A long morning at the Louvre had tired her, and her spirits drooped.

In imagination she went back to the days of silence and solitude in London; the memory affected her with something of homesickness, a wish that the past could be restored.