She glanced back at the biscuits. Petit-Beurre were after all foreign and brought with them always the sight of Dinant and its rock coming into view, ending the squabble about the pronunciation of _grenouille_, as the Meuse steamer rounded the last bend. But catching sight above the biscuits of a box of English nightlights she chose a piece of soap at random and fought while she responded to the voluble chantings accompanying the packing of her parcel, with the nightmare vision of bedrooms _never_ bathed in darkness, of people _never_ getting away into the night, people insisting, even in rooms where brilliance can be switched on at will, on the perpetual presence of the teasing little glimmer; people who travel in groups and bring with them so much of their home surroundings that they destroy daily, piecemeal, the sense of being abroad. Regaining the street in possession of a replica of the tablet she had unpacked last night, she found that the busy midst of the village lay just ahead where the way widened to encircle the little church. Many shops, some of them new-built, with roomy windows, and the lifeless impersonal appearance of successful provincial stores. There were more people here, more women in those heavy black dresses and head-shawls, more bloused and bearded men, crossing the snowy road with swift slouching stride. A post-office, offering universal hospitality. As if from the bright intense sunlight all about her, a ray of thought had fallen upon the mystery of her passion for soap, making it so clear in her mind that the little ray and the lit images waiting for words could be put aside in favour of the strange dingy building breaking the line of shops, looking like a warehouse, its small battered door, high up, approached by a flight of steps leading from either side whose meeting made a little platform before the door. Rough sleds were drawn up round about the entrance, making it central in the little open space about the church, the perpetual head-tossings of the horses filling the bright air with showers of tinkles. It could hardly be a café; yet two men had just clattered down the steps flushed and garrulous. Strange dark-looking hostelry within which shone the midday sun of these rough men living in far-away châlets among the snow.