A clock struck five.
The sun rose out of the grey mists of the east and flecked with golden light the upper stories of the white-faced city.
Betty roused at the noises of the awakening street below—footsteps—the clink of bottles in which young women bore the morning’s milk to the court—then low voices that gossiped drowsily.
The disturbing sense of being in a strange bed.
The distant rumble of a cart—and more footsteps and again voices, of a pitch and accent that struck strangely upon her ear. And she knew she was awaking in a strange land.
It came to her that she was in Paris.
Paris!
She sat up in bed.
There was a dear fellow’s head on the pillow beside her—he slept soundly.
And she laughed low.