But, I have had my fling and I am quite ready to go home.

Even amid the gayety and the glare, the splendor of color and light, the Hungarian band wafting to the greenery and the stars the strains of the delicious waltz, La Veuve Joyeuse her very self--yea, many of her--tapping the time at many adjacent tables, the song that fills my heart is 'Hame, Hame, Hame!--Hame to my ain countree.' Yet, to come again, d'ye mind?
I should be loath to say good-by forever to the Bois de Boulogne.

I want to come back to Paris.
I always want to come back to Paris.

One needs not to make an apology or give a reason.
"We turn rather sadly away from Pre Catalan and the Cafe Cascade.
We glide adown the flower-bordered path and out from the clusters of Chinese lanterns, and leave the twinkling groves to their music and merry-making.

Yonder behind us, like a sentinel, rises Mont Valerien.
Before us glimmer the lamps of uncountable coaches, as our own, veering toward the city, the moon just topping the tower of St.Jacques de la Boucherie and silver-plating the bronze figures upon the Arch of Stars.
"We enter the Port Maillot.