It was characteristic of him that he bought a first-class return without thinking of it, and then, when he found himself pompously alone in his compartment, while crowds were hurrying into the second-class, he reproached himself for extravagance, and passed the whole journey in a fume of discomfort.

For eight or nine years he had been rich; and he loathed the small ways of poverty.
Versailles was in the glow of an autumn sunset, as he walked from the station to the famous Hotel des Reservoirs on the edge of the Park.
The white houses, the wide avenues, the chateau on its hill, were steeped in light--a light golden, lavish, and yet melancholy, as though the autumn day still remembered the October afternoon when Marie Antoinette turned to look for the last time at the lake and the woods of Trianon.
As Fenwick crossed the Rue de la Paroisse, a lady on the other side of the road, who was hurrying in the opposite direction, stopped suddenly at sight of him, and stared excitedly.

She was a woman no longer young, much sunburnt, with high cheek-bones and a florid complexion.
He did not notice her, and after a moment's hesitation she resumed her walk.
He went into the Park, where the statues shone flamelike amid the bronze and orange of the trees, where the water of the fountains was dyed in blue and rose, and all the faded magnificence and decaying grace of the vast incomparable scene were kindling into an hour's rich life, under the last attack of the sun.

He wandered a while, restless and unhappy--yet always counting the hours till he should see the slight, worn figure which for a year had been hidden from him.
He dined in the well-known restaurant, wandered again in the mild dusk, then mounted to his room and worked a while at some of the sketches he was making for his new commission.

While he was so engaged, a carriage drew up below, and two persons descended.