It was a livid sky, and sooty clouds were scudding across it.

It was six o'clock in the morning.
Over the way, on the opposite side of the Boulevard Haussmann, the glistening roofs of the still-slumbering houses were sharply outlined against the twilight sky while along the deserted roadway a gang of street sweepers passed with a clatter of wooden shoes.

As she viewed Paris thus grimly awakening, she was overcome by tender, girlish feelings, by a yearning for the country, for idyllic scenes, for things soft and white.
"Now guess what you're to do," she said, coming back to Steiner.

"You're going to take me to the Bois de Boulogne, and we'll drink milk there." She clapped her hands in childish glee.

Without waiting for the banker's reply--he naturally consented, though he was really rather bored and inclined to think of other things--she ran off to throw a pelisse over her shoulders.