Cup and Lip

Through the crowded Paris terminal Neeland pushed his way, carrying
the olive-wood box in his hand and keeping an eye on his porter, who
preceded him carrying the remainder of his luggage and repeating:

"Place, s'il vous plaît, m'sieu', dames!"

To Neeland it was like a homecoming after many years' exile; the
subtle but perfectly specific odour of Paris assailed his nostrils
once again; the rapid, emphatic, lively language of France sounded
once more delightfully in his eager ears; vivacity and intelligence
sparkled in every eye that met his own. It was a throng of rapid
movement, of animated speech, of gesticulation. And, as it was in the
beginning when he first arrived there as a student, he fell in love
with it at first sight and contact.

All around him moved porters, passengers, railroad officials; the red
képis of soldiers dotted the crowd; a priest or two in shovel hat
and buckled shoes, a Sister of Charity from the Rue de Bac lent graver
accents to the throng; and everywhere were the pretty bourgeois women
of the capital gathered to welcome relatives or friends, or themselves
starting on some brief summer voyage so dear to those who seldom find
it in their hearts to leave Paris for longer than a fortnight at a
time.

As he pressed onward he witnessed characteristic reunions between
voyagers and friends who awaited them--animated, cordial, gay scenes
complicated by many embraces on both cheeks.