II
When Hilary awoke, the plane was coming down. “Paris,” thought Hilary,as she sat up in her seat and reached for her handbag. But it was not Paris.
The air hostess came down the car saying, with that nursery governessbrightness that some travellers found so annoying:
“We are landing you at Beauvais as the fog is very thick in Paris.”
The suggestion in her manner was: “Won’t that be nice, children?” Hil-ary peered down through the small space of window at her side. She couldsee little. Beauvais also appeared to be wreathed in fog. The plane wascircling round slowly. It was some time before it finally made its landing.
Then the passengers were marshalled through cold, damp mist into arough wooden building with a few chairs and a long wooden counter.
Depression settled down on Hilary but she tried to fight it off. A mannear her murmured:
“An old war aerodrome. No heating or comforts here. Still, fortunately,being the French, they’ll serve us out some drinks.”
True enough, almost immediately a man came along with some keysand presently passengers were being served with various forms of alco-holic refreshments¹ to boost their morale². It helped to buoy³ the passengersup for the long and irritating wait.
Some hours passed before anything happened. Other planes appearedout of the fog and landed, also diverted from Paris. Soon the small roomwas crowded with cold, irritable⁴ people grumbling⁵ about the delay.
To Hilary it all had an unreal quality. It was as though she was still in adream, mercifully protected from contact with reality. This was only adelay, only a matter of waiting. She was still on her journey—her journeyof escape. She was still getting away from it all, still going towards thatspot where her life would start again. Her mood held. Held through thelong, fatiguing⁶ delay, held through the moments of chaos⁷ when it was an-nounced, long after dark, that buses had come to convey the travellers toParis.

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