Gradually the platform cleared and I stood expectant. Out of nowhere appeared two nuns who spoke rapidly in French, first one to the other and and then to me.

“Has Stefani sent you to meet me?” I said.

They spoke French again. I could not understand a word. One nun snatched at my case, “Oui, oui, we take you.,” they said. The other nun pointed to a gate and I followed.

Alone in Paris! I with a few clothes and six shillings I wanted to run back and sit in the train. But an elderly man in a guards uniform had evidently noticed me standing there so bewildered. He spoke good English.

“What is it - missy?”

He was broad and stout with a good tempered face. Immediately I told him my friends had not come and I did not want to go with the nuns. I felt protected by him and kept close by his side while he spoke to the nuns in French and they quickly went away. He took my case from me and, carrying it, opened a waiting room door. He placed my suitcase inside, closed the door and, locking it, said, “You wait. Look from the window - another train will be in - perhaps they meet that one?”

Another train came in and crowds of people dispersed as quickly as the previous one.

One hour passed. I had a letter from Guy Lewis in my pocket, written from Hong Kong. I read that letter again. He called me ‘Sans Souci - my inconsequential child’ Bright and happy. Without a care. What would Guy think of me now? If he could but know. Alone in Paris with six shillings!

The guard came along again.

“Well your friends disappoint you. Where do they live?”

I gave him the address and he glanced at it.

“Better take a fiacre,” he said and he put a whistle to his mouth. A shabby carriage drew up and the coachman leaned down. They talked in French. The man shook his head.

Then turning to me the guard said, “Get in - Missy.”

I was tired and numb and kept my case beside me. I was worried and frightened. The man drove quickly whipping the horse. He kept stopping, inquiring, calling out.

It was only six in the morning and there were few people about. After jigger-jogging about - it seemed to my strained nerves for hours and hours - but really it had only been but half an hour since we had left the station.

The cabman was an uncouth individual - not at all like London cabmen. It was quite alarming - the reckless way in which he tore along the streets of Paris - over the cobblestones which lined the way and making unintelligible reassurances to his fare inside the vehicle - stopping now and then, not being sure of his destination. He gestured with his hands to a disreputable oddity who had the appearance of an Apache but this seemed more satisfactory for evidently the man had directed him.  

 The cab dashed off again past the Notre Dame nearly knocking me off my seat. Suddenly we came upon the Lion De Belfort and, taking a little side turning, we were in the Latin Quarter of Paris.

We drew up at a large white house which had green wooden sun blinds and a narrow path, or lane one might describe it, running along the side of the house. The cabman could not speak English and I could not speak French. He was gesticulating with both hands and I looked up at the window of this house. It was shuttered and I could not see anything.

However, getting out, I passed my purse with the six shillings in it.. The man looked at it and turned it over. Then taking four shillings he passed it back and shaking his head sadly - donating his sorrow - he poured poured forth a volley of French words and, pointing to the horse, jumped onto his seat and drove away.

The number of the house was marked ‘1’ and underneath ‘Concierge’ Holding onto my suitcase I knocked gingerly on the great door. Immediately the shutters from an upstairs window flew back and the window were unlatched. A head came out covered in a huge white night cap with frills. A voice shouted, Ou va la?”

I held up Stephani’s letter and spoke her name. The window was banged down and in a few moments sounds came. Someone was coming down the stairs and it sounded as though the shoes were too large for they flip-flopped on each stair as they descended. For the moment the fear and strain melted - the unreality which had been haunting me ever since I had arrived. The great door studded with brown nails opened and the concierge stood before me. I thrust the letter into her great red hands. She read the top line, said something in French, and pointed down the lane. That is all I can remember.

I strode forward and the case became heavy. I felt I could go no further and glanced at the numbers on the outside of each studio - for there was a long lane of them. Near the end, on a tall lattice work green gate, was the number ‘29’ and I saw also nailed to a tree which looked over the guarded ‘Pas de models’.

I opened the gate and reached a verandah which ran right along the house and, there being no knocker, I tapped with my finger on the long french window. Again an upstairs window opened and a bearded head came out, “No no no.” the head shouted.

What could this be? This was terrible. Things ought not to happen like this. I became tongue-tied and afraid but with a last effort I called up, “Steffy! Steffy! Steffy!” The window banged down again and I heard running and, “Mein Liebe Kinder!”

Stefani was there in her nightgown calling up to Otto Hettner the sculptor, who was staying there and, putting her head out of the window, she said “Mit einen mat - plotoliz lick unvenhoff.” (My friend has come) She crushed me to her. “Why have you come before you are due? The pass I sent is for tomorrow.”