The girls arrive in Paris... NAKED!

"So when are they getting here?”

“How should I know?” the second photographer said to the first. Perhaps three dozen of them, from every major newspaper in Europe, were waiting on the platform at the Gare du Nord, having received word that a race around the world was underway. Lady Evelyn Crooke was, of course, a well-known figure of British high society, and Fiona Fairweather was famous around the world for her generosity, pluck, and true English spirit. “Maybe they’ve already left and we missed it.”

“You might be right,” the first photographer said. “I’d have expected them to come out of the train by now. Let’s get out of here and go to the pub.”

“Great idea,” said the second photographer. “No time to lose. Let’s go as soon as I finish this sent-”

The doors of the final carriage of the London-Paris ferry express swung open, and two very flustered lovely ladies were propelled out onto the platform. Except for the grubby coal handprints adorning their pert breasts and plump, squeezable bottoms, they were both quite nude. The door slammed shut behind them, leaving them with absolutely nowhere to hide.

“Hey,” said the first photographer, nudging the second photographer. “Isn’t that…”

“It is,” said the second photographer, raising his camera. “It’s Fiona Fairweather and Lady Evelyn Crooke.”

“Why’ve they got no clothes on?”

“Good question. Hey, girls! Why’ve you got no clothes on?”

“EEEEEEEEK!” wailed Fiona and Evelyn simultaneously, scaring pigeons out of the rafters as they were instantly surrounded by dozens of laughing photographers, shouting impertinent questions and firing away with their old-fashioned portable brass folding cameras for all they were worth. The one of them both crouching against the side of the train, hands folded across their bodies in the classic pose of the modest Venus, just a moment too late to prevent the thorough documentation of their naked bodies by the camera’s probing eye, would later adorn the front page of the Financial Times.