The Terminus Hotel at Lyons is, as you know, a large, artistically
furnished place at the Perrache Station, an hotel with a huge and garish
restaurant below, decorated in the style known as _art nouveau_. It is
a busy spot, where rushing travellers are continuously going and coming,
and where the excitable Frenchman, fearing to lose his train, is seen at
his best.
It was there we arrived about six o'clock, and at seven we sat together,
a merry trio, at dinner. The cooking was perfect, the wines excellent,
and after dinner Shaw mentioned that he had letters to write. Therefore
I seized the opportunity to stroll out with Asta, for it was pleasant to
walk after so many hours in the car.
She was dressed neatly in black coat and skirt, and a small straw hat
trimmed with black ribbon--mourning for Guy Nicholson--and as we
wandered out our careless footsteps led us across that wide square
called the Cours du Midi, and down upon the Quai de la Charite beside
the broad, swiftly flowing Rhone, the water of which ran crimson in the
brilliant afterglow.
A hot, breathless evening, in which half Lyons seemed to be taking an
airing along the Quais of that winding river-bank which traverses the
handsome city. We had turned our backs upon the high railway bridge
which spans the river, and set our faces towards the centre of the city,
when I noticed that Asta seemed again very silent and thoughtful.