that a man may very wisely get drunk at times, but he's a ---- fool to
get himself sodden with drink." (And he went on to more, Hilda, that I
can't write to you.)

"'Well, I don't know what I said. I went back utterly miserable. Oh,
Hilda, I think I never ought to have come out here. Langton's right in a
way. We clergy have said the same thing so often that we forget how it
strikes a practical common-sense man. But there must be an answer
somewhere, if I only knew it. Meantime I'm like a doctor among the dying
who cannot diagnose the disease. I'm like a salesman with a shop full of
goods that nobody wants because they don't fulfil the advertisement. And
I never felt more utterly alone in my life.

"'These men talk a different language from mine; they belong to another
world. They are such jolly good fellows that they are prepared to accept
me as a comrade without question, but as for my message, I might as well
be trying to cure smallpox by mouthing sonorous Virgil--only it is worse
than that, for they no longer even believe that the diagnosis is what I
say. And what gets over me is that they are, on the whole, decent chaps.
There's Harold--he's probably immoral and he certainly drinks too much,
but he's as unselfish as possible, and I feel in my bones he'd do
anything to help a friend.

"'Of course, I hate their vices. The sights in the streets make me feel
positively sick. I wouldn't touch what they touch with a stick. When I
think of you, so honest and upright and clean....' Oh, but I needn't read
that, Uncle Bob." She turned over a page or so. "I think that's all.
No, just this:

"'I've been made mess secretary, and I serve out coffee in the canteen
for a couple of hours every other day. That's about all there is to do. I
wish to Heaven I had an ordinary commission!"

The girl's voice ceased with a suspicious suddenness, and the man's
hand tightened on her arm. For a minute they remained so, and then,
impulsively and unrestrained, she half-turned and sobbed out against his
knees:

"Oh, Uncle Bob, I'm so unhappy! I feel so sorry for him. And--and--the
worst is, I don't really understand.... I don't see what worries him. Our
religion is good enough, I'm sure. Oh, I _hate_ those beasts of men out
there! Peter's too good for them. I wish he'd never gone. I feel as if
he'd never come back!"

"There, there, my dear," said the old soldier, uncomfortably. "Don't take
on so. He'll find his feet, you know. It's not so bad as that. You can
trust him, can't you?"

She nodded vigorously. "But what do _you_ think of it all?" she demanded.

Sir Robert Doyle cleared his throat. "Well," he began, but stopped. To
him it was an extraordinarily hard thing to speak of religion, partly
because he cherished so whole-heartedly what he had got, and partly
because he had never formulated it, probably for that very reason. Sir
Robert could hardly have told his Maker what he believed about Him. When
he said the Creed he always said it with lowered voice and bowed head, as
one who considered very deeply of the matter, but in fact he practically
never considered at all....

"Well," he began again, "you see, dear, it's a strange time out there,
and it is a damned unpleasant age, if you'll excuse me. People can't take
anything these days without asking an infernal number of questions. Some
blessed Socialist'll begin to ask why a man should love his mother next,
and, not getting a scientific answer, argue that one shouldn't. As for
the men, they're all right, or they used to be. 'Love the Brotherhood.
Fear God. Honour the King'--that's about enough for you and me, I take
it, and Graham'll find it's enough for him. And he'll play the game, and
decent men will like him and get--er--helped, my dear. That's all there
is to it. But it's a pity," added the old Victorian Regular, "that these
blessed labour corps, and rest camps, and all the rest of it, don't have
parade services. The boy's bound to miss that. I'm hanged if I don't
speak about it!... And that reminds me.... Good Lord, it's ten o'clock!
I must go."

He started up, Hilda rose, smiling a little.

"That's better," said the old fellow; "must be a man, what? It's all a
bit of the war, you know."

"Oh, Uncle Bob, you _are_ a dear. You do cheer one up, somehow. I wish
men were more like you."

"No, you don't, my dear, don't you think it. I'm a back number, and you
know it, as well as any."

"You're not, Uncle Bob. I won't have you say it. Give me a kiss and say
you don't mean it."

"Well, well, Hilda, there is life in the old dog yet, and I must be off
and show it. No, I won't have another, not before duty. Good-night, dear,
and don't worry."

Hilda saw him off, and waved her hand from the door. Then she went back
slowly to the study and looked round. She stood a few moments and then
switched off the lights, and went out and slowly upstairs. The maid was
in the bedroom, and she dismissed her, keeping her face turned away. In
front of her glass, she held her letter irresolutely a moment, and then
folded it and slipped it into a drawer. She lifted a photo from the
dressing-table and looked at it for a few minutes earnestly. Then she
went to her window, threw it up, and leaned on the sill, staring hard
over the dark and empty park.

Outside, the General walked some distance before he found a taxi. He
walked fast for a man of his age, and ruminated as he went. It was his
way, and the way of his kind. Most of the modern sciences left him
unmoved, and although he would vehemently have denied it, he was the
most illogical of men. He held fast by a few good, sound, old-fashioned
principles, and the process of thought, to him, meant turning over a new
thing until he had got it into line with these principles. It was an
excellent method as far as it went, and it made him what he was--a
thoroughly sound and dependable servant of the State in any routine
business.

At the War Office he climbed more slowly up the steps and into the lobby.
An officer was just coming out, and they recognised each other under the
shaded lights. "Hullo, Chichester, what are you doing here?" demanded
Doyle heartily. "Thought you were in France."

"So I was, up to yesterday. I've just arrived. Orders."

"Where have you been?"

"Rouen. It's a big show now. Place full of new troops and mechanics in
uniform. To tell you the truth, Doyle, the Army's a different proposition
from what it was when you and I were in Egypt and India. But that's a
long time ago, old friend."

"Rouen, eh? Now, that's a coincidence. A young chap I know has just gone
there, in your department. Graham--Peter Graham. Remember him?"

"Oh, quite well. A very decent chap, I thought. Joined us ten days ago or
so. What about it? I forget for the moment where we put him."

"Oh, nothing, nothing. He'll find his feet all right. But what's this
about no parade services these days?"

"No parade services? We have 'em all right, when we can. Of course, it
depends a bit on the O.C., and in the Labour Corps especially it isn't
usually possible. It isn't like the line, old fellow, and even the line
isn't what we knew it. You can't have parade services in trenches, and
you can't have them much when the men are off-loading bully beef or
mending aeroplanes and that sort of thing. This war's a big proposition,
and it's got to go on. Why? Young Graham grousing?"

"No, no--oh, no," hastily asserted Doyle, the soul of honour. "No, not at
all. Only mentioned not getting a parade, and it seemed to me a pity.
There's a lot in the good old established religion."

"Is there?" said the other thoughtfully. "I'm not so sure to-day. The men
don't like being ordered to pray. They prefer to come voluntarily."

Doyle got fierce. "Don't like being ordered, don't they? Then what the
deuce are they there for? Good Lord, man! the Army isn't a debating
society or a mothers' meeting. You might as well have voluntary games
at a public school!"

The A.C.G. smiled. "That's it, old headstrong! No, my boy, the Army isn't
a mothers' meeting--at any rate, Fritz doesn't think so. But times have
changed, and in some ways they're better. I'd sooner have fifty men at a
voluntary service than two hundred on a parade."

"Well, I wouldn't," exploded Doyle. "I know your voluntary
services--Moody and Sankey hymns on a Sunday night. The men had better
be in a decent bar. But turn 'em out in the morning, clean and decent
on parade, and give 'em the old service, and it'll tighten 'em up and
do 'em good. Voluntary service! You'll have volunteer evangelists
instead of Army chaplains next!"

Colonel Chichester still smiled, but a little grimly. "We've got them,"
he said. "And no doubt there's something in what you say; but times
change, and the Church has got to keep abreast of the times. But, look
here, I must go. What about a luncheon? I've not got much leave."

"So must I; I've an appointment," said Doyle. "But all right, old friend,
to-morrow at the club. But you're younger than I, Chichester, or perhaps
you parsons don't get old as quickly!"

They shook hands and parted. Sir Robert was busy for an hour, and came
out again with his head full of the proposed plans for the aerial defence
of London. "Taxi, sir?" he was asked at the door. "No," he replied; "I'll
walk home."

"Best way to think, walking at night," he said to himself as he turned
down Whitehall, through the all but empty streets, darkened as they were.
The meaning of those great familiar spaces struck him as he walked.
Hardly formulating it, he became aware of a sense of pride and
responsibility as he passed scene after scene of England's past glory.
The old Abbey towered up in the moonlight, solemn and still, but almost
as if animate and looking at him. He felt small and old as he passed into
Victoria Street. There the Stores by night made him smile at the
contrast, but in Ashley Gardens Westminster Cathedral made him frown. If
he hated anything, it was that for which it stood. Romanism meant to him
something effeminate, sneaking, monstrous.... That there should be
Englishmen to build such a place positively angered him. He was not
exactly a bigot or a fanatic; he would not have repealed the Emancipation
Acts; and he would have said that if anyone wanted to be a Romanist,
he had better be one. But he would not have had time for anyone who did
so want, and if he should have had to have by any chance dealings with a
priest, he would have been so frigidly polite that the poor fellow would
probably have been frozen solid. Of course, Irishmen were different,
and he had known some capital fellows, Irish priests and chaplains....

And then he saw two men ahead of him. They were privates on leave and
drunk, but not hopelessly drunk. They were trying to negotiate the blank
of the entrance to the Catholic Soldiers' Hut in the protecting wall
which guarded the pavement just beyond the cathedral. As Sir Robert came
within earshot, one of them stumbled through it and collapsed profanely.
He halted for a second irresolutely, with the officer's hesitancy at
meddling with a drunken man.

The fellow on the ground tried to raise himself, and got one elbow on the
gravel. This brought him into such a position that he stared straight at
the illuminated crucifix across the path, and but little farther in.

"Lor', blimey, Joe," he said, "I'm blasted drunk, I am! Thought I was in
old Wipers, I did, and see one of them blessed cru-crushifixes!"

The other, rather less away, pulled at his arm. "So yer did, ole pal," he
said. "It's there now. This 'ere's some Cartholic place or other. Come
_hon_."

"Strike me dead, so it is, Joe, large as life! Christ! oo'd 'ave thought
it? A bloody cru-cru-chifix! Wat's old England comin' to, Joe?" And with
drunken solemnity he began to make a sign of the cross, as he had seen it
done in Belgium.

The other, in the half-light, plainly started. "Shut your bloody jaw,
'Enery," he said, "It's bad luck to swear near a cruchifix. I saw three
chaps blotted out clean next second for it, back behind Lar Basay. Come
on, will yer? We carn't stay 'ere all the blasted night."

"You are down on a chap, you are," said the other. "_Hi_ don't mean no
'arm. '_E_ ought to know that, any'ow." He got unsteadily to his feet.
"'E died to save us, 'E did. I 'eard a Y.M.C.A. bloke say them very
words, 'E died on the cru-cru-chifix to save us."

"'Ere, cheese it, you fool! We'll have somebody out next. Come away with
yer. I've got some Bass in my place, if we git there."

At this the other consented to come. Together they staggered out, not
seeing Sir Robert, and went off down the street, "'Enery" talking as they
went. The General stood and listened as the man's voice died down.

"Good for yer, old pal. But 'E died to save us _hall_, 'E did. Made a
bloomer of it, I reckon. Didn't save us from the bloody trenches--not as
I can see, any'ow. If that chap could 'ave told us 'ow to get saved from
the blasted rats an' bugs an'...."

Sir Robert pulled himself together and walked away sharply. By the
cathedral the carven Christ hung on in the wan yellow light, very still.

CHAPTER V

Peter lay on a home-made bed between the blankets and contemplated the
ceiling while he smoked his first cigarette. He had been a fortnight at
Rouen, and he was beginning to feel an old soldier--that is to say, he
was learning not to worry too much about outside things, and not to show
he worried particularly about the interior. He was learning to stand
around and smoke endless cigarettes; to stroll in to breakfast and out
again, look over a paper, sniff the air, write a letter, read another
paper, wander round the camp, talk a lot of rubbish and listen to more,
and so do a morning's work. Occasionally he took a service, but his real
job was, as mess secretary, to despatch the man to town for the shopping
and afterwards go and settle the bills. Just at present he was wondering
sleepily whether to continue ordering fish from the big merchants, Biais
Frères et Cie, or to go down to the market and choose it for himself. It
was a very knotty problem, because solving it in the latter way meant
getting up at once. And his batman had not yet brought his tea.

There came a knock at the door, and the tea came in. With it was a folded
note. "Came last night, sir, but you was out," said the man. He collected
his master's tunic and boots, and departed.

Peter opened the note and swore definitely and unclerically when he had
read it. It was from some unknown person, who signed himself as Acting
Assistant Chaplain-General, to the effect that he was to be moved to
another base, and that as the A.C.G. was temporarily on leave, he had
better apply to the Colonel of his own group for the necessary movement
order. On the whole this was unintelligible to Peter, but he was already
learning that there was no need to worry about that, for somebody would
be able to read the riddle. What annoyed him was the fact that he had got
to move just as he was settling down. It was certainly a matter for
another cigarette, and as he lit it he perceived one gleam of sunshine:
he need worry no more about the fish.

Peter waited till Harold had finished his breakfast before he imparted
the news to the world a couple of hours or so later. "I say, skipper," he
said, "I've got to quit."

"What, padre? Oh, hang it all, no, man! You've only just taken on the
mess secretary's job, and you aren't doing it any too badly either. You
can't go, old dear."

"I must. Some blighter's written from the A.C.G.'s office, and I've got
to get a movement order from the Colonel of the group, whatever that
means. But I suppose you can put me straight about that, anyway."

"Sure thing. Come up to the orderly-room 'bout eleven, and you can fill
up the chit and I'll fire it in for you. It's only a matter of form. It
goes through to Colonel Lear at La Croisset. Where to?"

Peter told him moodily.

"Eh?" said Harold. "Well, you can cheer up about that. Havre's not at all
a bad place. There are some decent shows about there and some very decent
people. What you got to do?"

"I don't know; I suppose I shall find out when I get there. But I don't
care what it's like. It's vile having to leave just now, when I'm getting
straight. And what'll you do for a four at bridge?"

Harold got up and fumbled in his pockets. As usual, there was nothing
there. "Why that damned batman of mine won't put my case in my pocket I
can't think," he said. "I'll have to fire the blighter, though he is T.T.
and used to be a P. and O. steward. Give me a fag, somebody. Thanks.
Well, padre, it's no use grousing. It's a beastly old war, and you're in
the blinkin' British Army, me lad. Drop in at eleven, then. Cheerio till
then."

At eleven Peter found Harold signing papers. He glanced up. "Oh,
sergeant," he said, "give Captain Graham a Movement Order Application
Form, will you? Sit down, padre; there's a pen there."

Peter wrestled with the form, which looked quite pretty when it was done.
Harold endorsed it. "Fire this through to the orderly-room, 10th Group,
sergeant," he said, and rose wearily. "Come along, padre," he said: "I've
got to go round the camp, and you can come too, if you've nothing better
to do."

"When'll I have to go, do you think?" asked Peter as they went out.

"Oh, I don't know. In a day or two. You'll have to hang about, for the
order may come any time, and I don't know how or when they'll send you."

Peter did hang about, for ten days, with his kit packed. His recently
acquired calm forsook him about the sixth day, and on the tenth he was
entirely mutinous. At lunch he voiced his grievances to the general mess.

"Look here, you men," he said, "I'm fed up to the back teeth. I've hung
round this blessed camp for more than a week waiting for that infernal
movement order, and I'm hanged if I'm going to stay in any more. It's a
topping afternoon. Who'll come down the river to La Bouille, or whatever
it is called?"

Harold volunteered. "That's a good line, padre. I want to go there
myself. Are the boats running now?"

"Saw 'em yesterday," volunteered somebody, and it was settled.

The two of them spent a decent afternoon on the river, and at Harold's
insistence went on back right up to town. They dined and went to a
cinema, and got back to camp about midnight. Graham struck a match and
looked at the board in the anteroom. "May as well see if there is
anything for me," he said. There was, of course. He tore the envelope
open. "Good Lord, skipper!" he said. "Here's my blessed movement order,
to report at the Gare du Vert at eight p.m. this very day. I'm only four
hours too late. What the dickens shall I do?"

Harold whistled. "Show it me," he said. "'The following personnel to
report at Gare du Vert ... at 8 p.m. 28th inst'" he read. "You're for it,
old bird," he continued cheerfully. "But what rot! Look here, it was
handed in to my orderly-room at six-thirty. You'd have hardly had time to
get there at any rate."

Graham looked over his shoulder. "That's so," he said. "But what'll I do
now?"

"Haven't a notion," said the other, "except that they'll let you know
quick enough. Don't worry--that's the main thing. If they choke you off,
tell 'em it came too late to get to the station."

Peter meditated this in silence, and in some dismay. He saw visions of
courts-martial, furious strafing, and unholy terrors. He was to be
forgiven, for he was new to comic opera; and besides, when a page of
_Punch_ falls to one in real life, one hardly realises it till too late.
But it was plain that nothing could be done that night, and he went to
bed with what consolation he could derive from the cheerful Harold.

Next morning his breakfast was hardly over when an orderly came in.
Harold had been earlier than usual, and had finished and gone out.
"Captain Graham, sir?" queried the man. "Captain Harold's compliments,
and a telephone message has just come in that you are to report to H.Q.
10th Group as quickly as possible."

Peter brushed himself up, and outwardly cheerful but inwardly quaking,
set off. Half an hour's walk brought him to the place, a little office
near a wharf in a tangle of trolley lines. He knocked, went in, came to
attention, and saluted.

Colonel Lear was a short, red-faced, boorish fellow, and his Adjutant sat
beside him at the desk, for the Colonel was not particularly well up in
his job. The Adjutant was tall, slightly bald, and fat-faced, and he
leaned back throughout the interview with an air of sneering boredom,
only vouchsafing laconic replies to his superior's occasional questions.
Peter didn't know which he hated the more; but he concluded that whereas
he would like to cut the Colonel in Regent Street, he would enjoy
shooting the Adjutant.

"Ah!" said the Colonel. "Are you Captain Graham? Well, sir, what's the
meaning of this? You applied for a movement order, and one was sent you,
and you did not report at the station. You damned padres think you can do
any bally thing you choose! Out here for a picnic, I suppose. What is the
meaning of it?"

"Well, sir," said Peter, "I waited ten days for the order and it did not
come. At last I went out for the afternoon, and got back too late to
execute it. I'm very sorry, but can't I go to-day instead?"

"Good God, sir! do you think the whole British Army is arranged for your
benefit? Do you think nobody has anything else to do except to arrange
things to suit your convenience? We haven't got troopers with Pullman
cars every day for the advantage of you chaplains, though I suppose you
think we ought to have. Supposing you did have to wait, what about it?
What else have you to do? You'd have waited fast enough if it was an
order to go on leave; that's about all you parsons think about. _I_ don't
know what you can do. What had he better do, Mallony?"

The Adjutant leaned forward leisurely, surveying Peter coolly.

"Probably he'd better report to the R.T.O., sir," he said.

"Oh, very well. It won't be any good, though. Go up to the R.T.O. and ask
him what you can do. Here's the order." (He threw it across the table,
and Peter picked it up, noting miserably the blue legend, "Failed to
Report--R.T.O., Gare du Vert.") "But don't apply to this office again.
Haven't you got a blessed department to do your own damned dirty work?"

"The A.C.G.'s away, sir," said Peter.

"On leave, I suppose. Wish to God I were a padre, eh, Mallony? Always on
leave or in Paris, and doin' nothing in between.... Got those returns,
sergeant?... What in hell are you waiting for, padre?"

For the first time in his life Peter had an idea of what seeing red
really means. But he mastered it by an effort, saluted without a word,
and passed out.

In a confused whirl he set off for the R.T.O., and with a sinking heart
reached the station, crowded with French peasantry, who had apparently
come for the day to wait for the train. Big notices made it impossible to
miss the Railway Transport Officer. He passed down a passage and into an
office. He loathed and hated the whole wide world as he went in.

A young man, smoking a cigarette and reading a magazine, glanced
up at him. Peter observed in time that he had two stars only on his
shoulder-strap. Before he could speak, the other said cheerily: "Well,
padre, and what can I do for you?"

Peter deprecatingly told him. He had waited ten days, etc., and had at
last gone out, and the movement order had come with...

The other cut him short: "Oh, you're the chap who failed to report, are
you? Blighted rotters they are at these Group H.Q.'s. Chuck us over the
chit."

Peter brightened up and obeyed. The other read it. "I know," ventured
Peter, "but I got the dickens of a strafe from the Colonel. He said he
had no idea when I could get away, and had better see you. What can I
do?"

"Silly old ass! You'd better go to-night. There are plenty of trains,
and you're all alone, aren't you? I might just alter the date, but I
suppose now you had better go to his nibs the Deputy Assistant Officer
controlling Transport. He's in the Rue de la Republique, No. 153; you can
find it easily enough. Tell him I sent you. He'll probably make you out
a new order."

Peter felt enormously relieved. He relaxed, smiled, and got out a
cigarette, offering the other one. "Beastly lot of fuss they make
over nothing, these chaps," he said.

"I know," said the R.T.O.; "but they're paid for it, my boy, and probably
your old dear had been strafed himself this morning. Well, cheerio; see
you again to-night. Come in time, and I'll get you a decent place."

The great man's office was up two flights of wooden stairs in what looked
like a deserted house. But Peter mounted them with an easy mind. He had
forgiven Lear, and the world smiled. He still didn't realise he was
acting in _Punch_.

Outside a suitably labelled door he stood a moment, listening to a
well-bred voice drawling out sarcastic orders to some unfortunate. Then,
with a smile he entered. A Major looked up at him, and heard his story
without a word. Peter got less buoyant as he proceeded, and towards the
end he was rather lame. A silence followed. The great man scrutinised
the order. "Where were you?" he demanded at last, abruptly.

It was an awkward question. Peter hedged. "The O.C. of my camp asked me
to go out with him," he said at last, feebly.

The other picked up a blue pencil and scrawled further on the order.
"We've had too much of this lately," he said icily. "Officers appear to
think they can travel when and how they please. You will report to the
D.A.Q.M.G. at Headquarters, 3rd Echelon." He handed the folded order
back, and the miserable Peter had a notion that he meant to add: "And
God have mercy on your soul."

He ventured a futile remonstrance. "The R.T.O. said you could perhaps
alter the date."

The Major leaned back and regarded him in silence as a remarkable
phenomenon such as had not previously come his way. Then he sighed,
and picked up a pen. "Good-morning," he said.

Peter, in the street, contemplated many things, including suicide. If
Colonel Chichester had been in Rouen he would have gone there; as it was,
he did not dare to face that unknown any more than this other. In the end
he set out slowly for H.Q., was saluted by the sentry under the flag,
climbed up to a corridor with many strangely labelled doors, and finally
entered the right one, to find himself in a big room in which half a
dozen men in uniform were engaged at as many desks with orderlies moving
between them. A kind of counter barred his farther passage. He stood at
it forlornly for a few minutes.

At last an orderly came to him, and he shortly explained his presence and
handed in the much-blued order. The man listened in silence, asked him to
wait a moment, and departed. Peter leaned on the counter and tried to
look indifferent. With a detached air he studied the Kirschner girls on
the walls. These added a certain air to the otherwise forlorn place, but
when, a little later, W.A.A.C.'s were installed, a paternal Government
ordered their removal. But that then mattered no longer to Peter.

At the last the orderly came back. "Will you please follow me, sir?" he
said.

Peter was led round the barrier like a sheep to execution, and in
at a small door. He espied a General Officer at a desk by the window,
telephone receiver in one hand, the fateful order in the other. He
saluted. The other nodded. Peter waited.

"Ah, yes! D.A.Q.M.G. speaking. That 10th Group Headquarters? Oh yes;
good-morning, Mallony. About Captain Graham's movement order. When was
this order applied for at your end?... What? Eighteenth? Humph! What time
did your office receive it?... Eh? Ten a.m.? Then, sir, I should like to
know what it was doing in your office till six p.m. This officer did not
receive it till six-thirty. What? He was out? Yes, very likely, but it
reached his mess at six-thirty: it is so endorsed.... Colonel Lear has
had the matter under consideration? Good. Kindly ask Colonel Lear to come
to the telephone."

He leaned back, and glanced up at Graham, taking him in with a grave
smile. "I understand you waited ten days for this, Captain Graham," he
said. "It's disgraceful that it should happen. I am glad to have had an
instance brought before me, as we have had too many cases of this sort of
thing lately...." He broke off. "Yes? Colonel Lear? Ah, good-morning,
Colonel Lear. This case of the movement order of Captain Graham has just
been brought to me. This officer was kept waiting ten days for his order,
and then given an impossibly short time to report. Well, it won't do,
Colonel. There must be something very wrong in your orderly-room; kindly
see to it. Chaplains have other things to do than sit around in camps
waiting the convenience of Group Headquarters. The application for this
order reached us on the 27th, and was sent off early next morning, in
ample time for the officer to travel. I am very displeased about it. You
will kindly apply at once for a fresh order, and see that it is in
Captain Graham's hands at least six hours before he must report. That
is all. Good-morning."

Peter could hardly believe his ears, but he could barely keep a straight
face either. The D.A.Q.M.G. hung up the receiver and repeated the latter
part of the message. Peter thanked him and departed, walking on air. A
day later an orderly from the group informed him at 11 a.m. that the
order had been applied for and might be expected that day, and at 1
o'clock he received it. Such is the humour of the high gods who control
the British Army. But he never saw Colonel Lear again, and was thankful.

Peter reached his new base, then, early in March in a drizzle of rain. He
was told his camp and set off to find it, and for an hour walked through
endless docks, over innumerable bridges, several of which, being open to
admit and let out ships, caused him pretty considerable delay. It was a
strange, new experience. The docks presented types of nearly every
conceivable nationality and of every sort of shipping. French marines and
seamen were, of course everywhere, but so were Chinese, South African
natives, Egyptians, Senegalese, types of all European nationalities,
a few of the first clean, efficient-looking Americans in tight-fitting
uniforms, and individual officers of a score of regiments.

The old town ended in a row of high, disreputable-looking houses that
were, however, picturesque enough, and across the _pavé_ in front of them
commenced the docks. One walked in and out of harbours and waterways, the
main stretch of harbour opening up more and more on the right hand, and
finally showing two great encircling arms that nearly met, and the grey
Channel beyond. Tossing at anchor outside were more than a dozen ships,
waiting for dark to attempt the crossing. As he went, a seaplane came
humming in from the mists, circled the old town, and took the harbour
water in a slither of foam. He had to wait while a big Argentine ship
ploughed slowly in up a narrow channel, and then, in the late afternoon,
crossed a narrow swing foot-bridge, and found himself on the main outer
sea-wall.

Following directions, he turned to the right and walked as if going out
to the harbour mouth a mile or so ahead. It seemed impossible that his
camp should be here, for on the one hand he was close to the harbour, and
on the other, over a high wall and some buildings, was plainly to be
espied the sea. A few hundred yards on, however, a crowd of Tommies were
lined up and passing embarkation officers for a big trooper, and Peter
concluded that this was the leave boat by which he was to mark his camp
across the road and more or less beyond it.

He crossed a railway-line, went in at a gate, and was there.

The officers' quarters had a certain fascination. You stepped out of
the anteroom and found yourself on a raised concrete platform at the
back of which washed the sea. Very extensive harbour works, half
completed, ran farther out in a great semicircle across a wide space of
leaden water, over which gulls were circling and crying; but the thin
black line of this wall hardly interrupted one's sense of looking
straight out to sea, and its wide mouth away on the right let in the
real invigorating, sea-smelling wind. The camp itself was a mere strip
between the railway-line and the water, a camp of R.E.'s to which he was
attached. He was also to work a hospital which was said to be close by.

It was pointed out to him later. The railway ran out all but to the
harbour mouth, and there ended in a great covered, wide station. Above
it, large and airy, with extensive verandahs parallel to the harbour,
was the old Customs, and it was this that had been transformed into a
hospital. It was an admirable place. The Red Cross trains ran in below,
and the men could be quickly swung up into the cool, clean wards above.
These, all on one level, had great glass doors giving access to the
verandahs, and from the verandahs broad gangways could be placed, running
men, at high tide, on to the hospital ship alongside. The nurses'
quarters were beyond, and their sitting-room was perched up, as it
were, sea on one side and harbour on the other.

At present, of course, Peter did not know all this. He was merely
conducted by an orderly in the dusk to the anteroom of the mess, and
welcomed by the orderly-officer, who led him into a comfortable room
already lit, in a corner of which, near a stove, four officers sat at
cards.

"Hearts three," said one as Peter came in.

"Pass me," said another, and it struck Peter that he knew the tone.

The four were fairly absorbed in their game, but the orderly officer led
Peter towards the table. At that they looked up, and next minute one had
jumped up and was greeting him.

"By all that's wonderful! It's you again," he said.

"Donovan!" exclaimed Peter, "What: are you doing here?"

The South African held out his hand. "I've got attached to one of our
nigger outfits," he said, "just up the dock from here. But what are you
doing?"

"Oh, I've been moved from Rouen," said Peter, "and told to join up here.
Got to look after the hospital and a few camps. And I was told," he
added, "I'd live in this camp."

"Good enough," said Donovan. "Let me introduce you. This is Lieutenant
Pennell, R.E.--Lieutenant Pennell, Captain Graham. This is a bird of your
kidney, mess secretary and a great man, Padre Arnold, and this is one
Ferrars, Australian Infantry. He tried to stop a shell," went on Donovan
easily, "and is now recovering. The shock left him a little insane, or so
his best friends think; hence, as you may have heard, he has just gone
three hearts. And that's all anyone can do at present, padre, so have a
cigarette and sit down. I hope you haven't changed your old habits, as
you are just in time for a sun-downer. Orderly!"

He pulled up a large easy-chair, and Peter subsided into it with a
pleasant feeling of welcome. He remembered, now, having heard that
Donovan was at Havre, but it was none the less a surprise to meet him.

Donovan played a good hand when he liked, but when he was not meeting
his mettle, or perhaps when the conditions were not serious enough, he
usually kept up a diverting, unorthodox run of talk the whole time. Peter
listened and took in his surroundings lazily. "Come on," said his friend,
playing a queen. "Shove on your king, Pennell; everyone knows you've got
him. What? Hiding the old gentleman, are you? Why, sure it's myself has
him all the time"--gathering up the trick and leading the king. "Perhaps
somebody's holding up the ace now...." and so on.

Pennell played well too, but very differently. He was usually bored with
his luck or the circumstances, and until you got to know him you were
inclined to think he was bored with you. He was a young-looking man of
thirty-five, rather good-looking, an engineer in peace-time who had
knocked about the world a good deal, but hardly gave you that impression.
The Australian played poorly. With curly dark hair and a perpetual pipe,
his face was almost sullen in repose, but it lit up eagerly enough at
any chance excitement. Arnold was easily the eldest, a short man with
iron-grey hair and very kindly eyes, a man master of himself and his
circumstances. Peter watched him eagerly. He was likely to see a good
deal of him, he thought, and he was glad there would be a padre as well
in camp.

Donovan and Ferrars won the game and so the rubber easily, and the former
pushed his chair back from the table. "That's enough for me, boys," he
said. "I must trek in a minute. Well, padre, and what do you think of the
Army now?"

"Mixed biscuits rather," Peter said. "But I had a rum experience getting
here. You wouldn't have thought it possible," and he related the story
of the movement order. At the close, Pennell nodded gloomily. "Pack of
fools they are!" he said. "Hardly one of them knows his job. You can
thank your lucky stars that the D.A.Q.M.G. had a down on that Colonel
What's-his-name, or it would have taken you another month to get here,
probably--eh, Donovan?"

"That's so, old dear," said that worthy, "But I'm hanged if I'd have
cared. Some place, Rouen. Better'n this hole."

"Well, at Rouen they said this was better," said Peter.

Arnold laughed. "That's the way of the Army," he said. "It's all much the
same, but you would have to go far to beat this camp."

Pennell agreed. "You're right there, padre," he said. "This is as neat a
hole as I've struck. If you know the road," he went on to Peter, "you can
slip into town in twenty-five minutes or so, and we're much better placed
than most camps. There's no mud and cinders here, is there, Donovan? His
camp's built on cinders," he added.

"There are not," said that worthy, rising. "And you're very convenient to
the hospital here, padre. You better get Arnold to show you round; he's a
dog with the nurses."

"What about the acting matron, No. 1 Base?" demanded Arnold. "He has tea
there every Sunday," he explained to Peter, "and he a married man, too."

"It's time I went," said Donovan, laughing; "all the same, there's a
concert on Tuesday in next week, a good one, I believe, and I've promised
to go and take some people. Who'll come? Pennell, will you?"

"Not this child, thanks. Too many nurses, too much tea, and too much talk
for me. Now, if you would pick me out a pretty one and fix up a little
dinner in town, I'm your man, old bean."

"Well, that might be managed. It's time we had a flutter of some sort.
I'll see. What about you, Graham? You game to try the hospital? You'll
have to get to know the ropes of them all, you know."

"Yes, I'll come," said Peter--"if I can, that is." He looked inquiringly
at Arnold.

"Oh, your time is more or less your own," he replied--"at least, it is
our side of the house. Are you C.G. or P.C.?"

"Good God, padre!" said the Australian, getting up too, "what in the
world do you mean?"

"Chaplain-General's Department or Principal Chaplain's Department, Church
of England or Nonconformist. And it's sixpence a swear in this mess."
Arnold held out a hand.

Donovan caught his friend by the arm. "Come on out of it," he said. "You
won't get back in time if you don't. The padre's a good sort; you needn't
mind him. So long everybody. Keep Tuesday clear, Graham. I'll call for
you."

"Well, I'd better fix you up, Graham," said Arnold. "For my sins I'm mess
secretary, and as the president's out and likely to be, I'll find a place
for you."

He led Peter into the passage, and consulted a board on the wall. "I'd
like to put you next me, but I can't," he said. "Both sides occupied.
Wait a minute. No. 10 Pennell, and No. 11's free. How would you like
that? Pennell," he called through the open door, "what's the next room to
yours like? Light all right?"

"Quite decent," said Pennell, coming to the door. "Going to put him
there, padre? Let's go and see." Then the three went off together down
the passage.

The little room was bare, except for a table under the window, Arnold
opened it, and Peter saw he looked out over the sea. Pennell switched on
the light and found it working correctly, and then sauntered across the
couple of yards or so of the cubicle's width to look at the remains of
some coloured pictures pasted on the wooden partition.

"Last man's made a little collection from _La Vie Parisienne_ for you,
padre," he said, "Not a very bright selection, either. You'll have to
cover them up, or it'll never do to bring your A.C.G. or A.P.C., or
whatever he is, in here. What a life!" he added, regarding them. "They
are a queer people, the French.... Well, is this going to do?"

Graham glanced at Arnold, "Very well," he said, "if it's all right for me
to have it."

"Quite all right," said Arnold. "Remember, Pennell is next door left, so
keep him in order. Next door right is the English Channel, more or less.
Now, what about your traps?"

"I left them outside the orderly-room," said Peter, "except for some
that a porter was to bring up. Perhaps they'll be here by now. I've got
a stretcher and so on."

"I'll go and see," said Pennell, "and I'll put my man on to get you
straight, as you haven't a batman yet." And he strolled off.

"Come to my room a minute," said Arnold, and Peter followed him.

Arnold's room was littered with stuff. The table was spread with mess
accounts, and the corners of the little place were stacked up with a
gramophone, hymn-books, lantern-slides, footballs, boxing-gloves, and
such-like. The chairs were both littered, but Arnold cleared one by the
simple expedient of piling all its contents on the other, and motioned
his visitor to sit down. "Have a pipe?" he asked, holding out his pouch.

Peter thanked him, filled and handed it back, then lit his pipe, and
glanced curiously round the room as he drew on it. "You're pretty full
up," he said.

"Fairly," said the other. "There's a Y.M.C.A. here, and I run it more or
less, and Tommy likes variety. He's a fine chap, Tommy; don't you think
so?"

Peter hesitated a second, and the other glanced at him shrewdly.

"Perhaps you haven't been out long enough," he said.

"Perhaps not," said Peter. "Not but what I do like him. He's a cheerful
creature for all his grousing, and has sterling good stuff in him. But
religiously I don't get on far. To tell you the truth, I'm awfully
worried about it."

The elder man nodded. "I guess I know, lad," he said. "See here. I'm
Presbyterian and I reckon you are Anglican, but I expect we're up against
much the same sort of thing. Don't worry too much. Do your job and talk
straight, and the men'll listen more than you think."

"But I don't think I know what to tell them," said Peter miserably, but
drawn out by the other.

Arnold smiled. "The Prayer Book's not much use here, eh? But forgive me;
I don't mean to be rude. I know what you mean. To tell you the truth, I
think this war is what we padres have been needing. It'll help us to find
our feet. Only--this is honest--if you don't take care you may lose them.
I have to keep a tight hold of that"--and he laid his hand on a big
Bible--"to mind my own."

Peter did not reply for a minute. He could not talk easily to a stranger.
But at last he said: "Yes; but it doesn't seem to me to fit the case. Men
are different. Times are different. The New Testament people took certain
things for granted, and even if they disagreed, they always had a common
basis with the Apostles. Men out here seem to me to talk a different
language: you don't know where to begin. It seems to me that they have
long ago ceased to believe in the authority of anyone or anything in
religion, and now to-day they actually deny our very commonplaces. But
I don't know how to put it," he added lamely.

Arnold puffed silently for a little. Then he took his pipe out of his
mouth and regarded it critically. "God's in the soul of every man still,"
he said. "They can still hear Him speak, and speak there. And so must we
too, Graham."

Peter said nothing. In a minute or so steps sounded in the passage, and
Arnold looked up quickly. "Maybe," he said, "our ordinary life prevented
us hearing God very plainly ourselves, Graham, and maybe He has sent us
here for that purpose. I hope so. I've wondered lately if we haven't come
to the kingdom for such a time as this."

Pennell pushed the door open, and looked in. "You there, Graham?" he
asked. "Oh, I thought I'd find him here, padre; his stuff's come."

Peter got up. "Excuse me, Arnold," he said; "I must shake in. But I'm
jolly glad you said what you did, and I hope you'll say it again, and
some more."

The older man smiled an answer, and the door closed. Then he sighed a
little, and stretched out his hand again for the Bible.

CHAPTER VI

The great central ward at No. 1 Base Hospital looked as gay as possible.
In the centre a Guard's band sat among palms and ferns, and an
extemporised stage, draped with flags, was behind, with wings constructed
of Japanese-figured material. Pretty well all round were the beds,
although many of them had been moved up into a central position, and
there was a space for chairs and forms. The green-room had to be outside
the ward, and the performers, therefore, came and went in the public
gaze. But it was not a critical public, and the men, with a plenitude
of cigarettes, did not object to pauses. On the whole, they were
extraordinarily quiet and passive. Modern science has made the
battlefield a hell, but it has also made the base hospital something
approaching a Paradise.

There were women in plenty. The staff had been augmented by visitors from
most of the other hospitals in the town, and there was a fair sprinkling
of W.A.A.C.'s, Y.M.C.A. workers, and so on, in addition. Jack Donovan
and Peter were a little late, and arrived at the time an exceedingly
popular subaltern was holding the stage amid roars of laughter. They
stood outside one of the many glass doors and peered in.

Once inside, one had to make one's way among beds and chairs, and the
nature of things brought one into rather more than the usual share of
late-comers' scrutiny, but nothing could abash Donovan. He spotted at
once a handsome woman in nurse's indoor staff uniform, and made for her.
She, with two others, was sitting on an empty bed, and she promptly made
room for Donovan. Graham was introduced, and a quiet girl moved up a bit
for him to sit down; but there was not much room, and the girl would not
talk, so that he sat uncomfortably and looked about him, listening with
one ear to the fire of chaff on his right. Donovan was irrepressible. His
laugh and voice, and the fact that he was talking to a hospital
personage, attracted a certain amount of attention. Peter tried to smile,
but he felt out of it and observed. He stared up towards the band, which
was just striking up again.

Suddenly he became conscious, as one will, that someone was particularly
looking at him. He glanced back over the chairs, and met a pair of eyes,
roguish, laughing, and unquestionably fixed upon him. The moment he saw
them, their owner nodded and telegraphed an obvious invitation. Peter
glanced at Donovan: he had not apparently seen. He looked back; the eyes
called him again. He felt himself getting hot, for, despite the fact that
he had a kind of feeling that he had seen those eyes before, he was
perfectly certain he did not know the girl. Perhaps she had made a
mistake. He turned resolutely to his companion.

"Jolly good band, isn't it?" he said.

"Yes," she replied.

"But I suppose at a hospital like this you're always hearing decent
music?" he ventured.

"Not so often," she said.

"This band is just back from touring the front, isn't it? My friend said
something to that effect."

"I believe so," she said.

Peter could have cursed her. It was impossible to get anything out of
her, though why he had not a notion. The answer was really simple, for
she wanted to be next Donovan, and wasn't, and she was all the while
scheming how to get there. But Peter did not tumble to that; he felt an
ass and very uncomfortable, and he broke into open revolt.

He looked steadily towards the chairs. The back of the girl who had
looked at him was towards him now, for she was talking sideways to
somebody; but he noted an empty chair just next her, and that her uniform
was not that of the nurses of this hospital. He felt confident that she
would look again, and he was not disappointed. Instantly he made up his
mind, nodded, and reached for his cap. "I see a girl I know over there,"
he said to his neighbour. "Excuse me, will you?" Then he got up and
walked boldly over to the vacant chair. He was fast acclimatising to war
conditions.

He sat down on that empty chair and met the girl's eyes fairly. She was
entirely at her ease and laughing merrily. "I've lost my bet," she said,
"and Tommy's won."

"And you've made me tell a thundering lie," he replied, laughing too,
"which you know is the first step towards losing one's soul. Therefore
you deserve your share in the loss."

"Why? What did you say?" she demanded.

"I said I saw a girl I knew," he replied. "But I haven't any idea who you
are, though I can't help feeling I've seen you before."

She chuckled with amusement, and turned to her companion. "He doesn't
remember, Tommy," she said.

The second girl looked past her to Peter. "I should think not," she said.
"Nobody would. But he'll probably say in two minutes that he does. You're
perfectly shameless, Julie."

Julie swung round to Peter. "You're a beast, Tommy," she said over her
shoulder, "and I shan't speak to you again. You see," she went on to
Peter, "I could see you had struck a footling girl, and as I don't know a
single decent boy here, I thought I'd presume on an acquaintance, and see
if it wasn't a lucky one. We've got to know each other, you know. The
girl with me on the boat--oh, damn, I've told you!--and I am swearing,
and you're a parson, but it can't be helped now--well, the girl told me
we should meet again, and that it was probably you who was mixed up with
my fate-line. What do you think of that?"

Peter had not an idea, really. He was going through the most amazing set
of sensations. He felt heavy and dull, and as if he were utterly at a
loss how to deal with a female of so obviously and totally different a
kind from any he had met before; but, with it all, he was very conscious
of being glad to be there. Underneath everything, too, he felt a bit of a
dare-devil, which was a delightful experience for a London curate; and
still deeper, much more mysteriously and almost a little terrifyingly,
something stranger still, that he had known this girl for ages, although
he had not seen her for a long time. "I'm highly privileged, I'm sure,"
he said, and could have kicked himself for a stupid ass.

"Oh Lord!" said Julie, with a mock expression of horror; "for goodness'
sake don't talk like that. That's the worst of a parson: he can't forget
the drawing-room. At any rate, I'm not sure that _I'm_ highly fortunate,
but I thought I ought to give Fate a chance. Do you smoke?"

"Yes," said Peter wonderingly.

"Then for goodness' sake smoke, and you'll feel better. No, I daren't
here, but I'm glad you are educated enough to ask me. Nurses aren't
supposed to smoke in public, you know, and I take it that even you have
observed that I'm a nurse."

She was quite right. Peter drew on his cigarette and felt more at
ease. "Well, to be absolutely honest, I had," he said. "And I observe,
moreover, that you are not wearing exactly an English nurse's uniform,
and that you have what I might venture to call a zoological badge. I
therefore conclude that, like my friend Donovan, you hail from South
Africa. What hospital are you in?"

"Quai de France," she said. "Know it?"

Peter repressed a start. "Quai de France?" he queried. "Where's that,
now?"

At this moment a song started, but his companion dropped her voice to
stage whisper and replied: "End of the harbour, near where the leave-boat
starts. Know it now?"

He nodded, but was saved a reply.

She looked away toward the platform, and he studied her face
surreptitiously. It seemed very young till you looked closely, especially
at the eyes, and then you perceived something lurking there. She was
twenty-seven or twenty-eight, he concluded. She looked as if she knew the
world inside out, and as if there were something hidden below the gaiety.
Peter felt curiously and intensely attracted. His shyness vanished. He
had, and had had, no intimations of the doings of Providence, and nobody
could possibly be more sceptical of fate-lines than he, but it dawned on
him as he stared at her that he would fathom that look somehow,
somewhere.

"I'm practically not made up at all," she whispered, without turning her
head, "so for Heaven's sake don't say there's too much powder on my
nose."

Peter shook silently. "No, but a faint trace on the right cheek," he
whispered back. She turned then and looked at him, and her eyes
challenged his. And yet it is to be supposed that Hilda knew nothing
whatever about it.

"'_Right on my mother's knee_....'" sang the platform.

"'_Without a shirt, without a shirt_,'" gagged Peter, _sotto voce_, and
marvelled at himself. But he felt that her smothered laughter amply
rewarded him.

The song ceased in time, and the encore, which they both rigorously
demanded. And immediately she began again.

"I hope to goodness tea isn't far off," she said. "By the way, you'll
have to take me to it, now, you know. We go out of that door, and up a
flight of steps, and there's the matron's room on the top and a visitor's
room next to it, and tea'll be there. It will be a fiendish squash, and I
wouldn't go if I hadn't you to get me tea and take me away afterwards as
soon as possible."

"I'm highly privileged, I'm sure," said Peter again, quite deliberately.
She laughed. "You are," she said. "Look how you're coming on! Ten minutes
ago you were a bored curate, and now you're--what are you?"

Peter hesitated perceptibly. He felt he might say many things. Then he
said "A trapped padre," and they both laughed.

"Thank goodness you're not sentimental, anyway," she said. "Nor's your
friend; but the matron is. I know her sort. Look at them."

Peter looked. Donovan appeared still entirely at his ease, but he was
watching Peter, who realised why he had been made to look. He brazened
it out, smiled back at him, and turned perfectly deliberately to his
companion.

"Julie," he said, "don't look over there any more, for goodness' sake, or
we'll have Donovan here. And if he comes he'll sail in and take you to
tea without a word. I know him. He's got an unfair advantage over me. I'm
just waking up, and he's been awake for years. Please give me a chance."

She leaned, back and regarded him humorously. "You're not doing so
badly," she said, "I don't know that a man has ever called me 'Julie'
before in the first quarter of an hour. Do you know that, Solomon?"

"It's your fault, I've never been introduced, and I must call you
something, so why not the name your friend called you? Julie's very
pretty and suits you. Somehow I couldn't call you 'Miss' anything, though
it may be convenient to know the rest. Do you think you could call me the
Rev. Peter Graham?"

"I couldn't," she confessed, slightly more solemnly. "Queer, isn't it?
But don't, talk about it: it isn't lucky. I shall call you Solomon for
ever now. And you can only call me Miss Gamelyn when you've got to. See?"

"But why in the world 'Solomon'? It doesn't fit me a bit."

"Oh," she said, "it does, but don't worry why. Perhaps because, as the
old man said to the vicar when he heard of Solomon's wives, you are a
highly privileged Christian. You can't deny that, since you've said it
twice. Praises be, here is tea. Come on; come on, Tommy. Oh, Tommy, this
is the Very Reverend Peter Graham. Mr. Graham, this is one Raynard,
commonly known as Tommy, my half-section, so try to be polite."

There was a general movement, and Peter shook hands as he got up. The
other girl struck him at once as a good sort.

"You're booked to take us to tea, I suppose?" she said. "Julie's far more
practical than you'd imagine, padre."

They left the row of chairs together, Julie well in front and apparently
forgetful of their existence. As they came abreast of the empty bed,
Peter noticed that the assistant matron had gone, and that Donovan was
drifting in the stream alongside her in front. But before they were out
of the great ward, Julie and he were laughing together. Peter felt
absurdly hurt, and hated himself for feeling it. The other girl was
talking at his elbow, but he made ridiculous and commonplace replies and
hardly noticed her. She broke off at last abruptly, and he roused himself
to carry on. He caught her expression, and somehow or other it landed him
deeper in the business. He made a deliberate move.

"Where are you going after this?" he asked.

"Down town to do some shopping; then I suppose home, unless a fit seizes
Julie and we run a risk once more of being summarily repatriated."

He laughed. "Does that often happen?"

"Quite often. You see ours is an English hospital, though we are South
Africans attached to it. I think they're much more strict than Colonial
hospitals. But they give us more latitude than the rest, at any rate.
Julie had a fearful row once, and simply declared she would do some
things, and since then they turn a blind eye occasionally. But there are
limits, and one day she'll step over them--I know she will."

"Let's hope not," said Peter; "but now let me get you some tea."

The little room was packed, but Peter got through somehow and made his
way to a series of tables spread with cakes and sandwiches. He got a cup
and seized a plate, and shouldered his way back. In the crush he saw only
the top of Miss Raynard's head, and made for that. "Here you are," he
said cheerfully, as he emerged. "Have a sandwich?"

"Thanks," she said as she took it; "but why didn't you bring two cups?"

"Why?" he asked.

She nodded towards a corner and there was Julie, wedged in between
people, and refusing tea from a subaltern. "She expects you to bring it,"
said Miss Raynard.

Peter looked puzzled, "Where's Donovan?" he said. "I thought she came in
with him."

The girl smiled. "She did, but she arranged for you to bring her tea,
whoever Donovan is, and she'll wait for it. She's that sort. Besides, if
Donovan was that officer with the matron, he's probably got other fish to
fry."

Peter waited for no more, but plunged into the press again. As he
emerged, he crossed the track of his friend, who was steering about with
cakes. "Hullo, padre," that individual said; "you're a smart one, you
are. Let's take those girls out to dinner. They'll come all right."

Peter mumbled something, and went on with his tea towards the corner. The
other's readiness and effrontery staggered him, but he wasn't going to
give himself away.

"You're a brute!" said Julie promptly. "Where have you been?"

"It's where have you been, you mean," retorted Peter. "I thought I was to
take you in to tea. When last I saw you, you had Donovan in tow."

"And you had Tommy. Don't you like her?"

"Awfully," said Peter; "I think she wants something now. But do come
across to our side. Aren't you going soon?"

"Yes, when we can get away. Remember, everyone is watching. You go on
out, and we can meet you below."

"Right," said Peter; "I'll collect Donovan."

He found him after a bit, and the two made their adieus and thanks.

As they went down the steps, Jack outlined the campaign. "I just joked to
her about dinner," he said, "but I think they'll rise. If they do, we'll
go to Travalini's, if they dare. That girl of yours is up to anything:
she knows a thing or two. You've some nerve, old thing."

"Nothing to yours," retorted Graham, still not at all sure of himself.
"But, look here, what about Travalini's? I don't know that I care to go
there."

"Oh, it's all right, old dear. You haven't a vast collar on now, and you
ought to see life. I've seen scores of chaplains there, even old Arnold.
I'll look after your morals. Come on; let's get out and across the road.
We shall see them coming down the steps."

The hospital fronted on to the sea and the promenade that once was so
fashionable. The sun was setting, blood red, over the Channel, the ships
at anchor looking dark by contrast. But there was still plenty of light,
and Peter was inwardly conscious of his badges. Still, he told himself
that he was an ass, and the two of them sauntered slowly townwards.

In a few minutes Jack glanced back. "They're coming," he said, and as the
girls crossed on to the pavement behind them, turned round. "Good for
you," he said. "You got out quicker than I thought you would. Shall we
tram or walk?"

"Walk, I think," said Julie; "it's topping here by the sea. I want to get
a pair of shoes, and the shop's not too far. Besides, you can buy shoes
by artificial light, which won't do for some things. Tommy bought a hat
the other night, and she nearly had a fit in the morning. She's keeping
it for the next fancy-dress stunt."

She ran on, and, despite Peter, Donovan annexed her. They set off gaily
ahead, Julie's clear laugh coming back now and again. Peter felt
depressed and angry. He told himself he was being let in for something he
did not want, and he had not much to say. To make conversation, he asked
about South Africa.

It appeared the girls came from Natal. Miss Raynard was enthusiastic, and
he gathered they had been trained together in Pietermaritzburg, but lived
somewhere on the coast, where there was tennis all the year and moonlight
bathing picnics in the season, and excellent river boating. He could not
catch the name, but it was not too far from Durban. He said, in the end,
that he had always wanted to visit South Africa, and should certainly
come to Natal....

They turned off the promenade into a boulevard lined with the usual
avenue of trees. It was dusk now, and looked darker by contrast with the
street lamps. Small tram-cars rushed by now and again, with clanging
bells and platforms crowded before and behind, and there were plenty of
people in the street, Julie turned abruptly.

"I say, Tommy," she said, "Captain Donovan wants us to go out to
dinner. What do you say? My shoes can wait, and we needn't be in till
eight-thirty. It's not more than six now. It will be a spree."

"I'm game; but where are we going?"

"I suggest Travalini's, padre," said Donovan.

"Not for me;" said Miss Raynard; "it's too public and you seem to forget,
Captain' Donovan, that we are forbidden to dine with officers."

"Nobody is likely to give us away, Tommy," said Miss Gamelyn.

"I'm not going to take the risk in uniform. Let's go to a quiet hotel, or
else to some very French place. That would be fun."

"A jolly good idea," cried Donovan, "and I know what will just fix us up.
Come on."

Tommy smiled. "Probably it _will_ fix us up. Tell us about it first."

"It's absolutely safe," Donovan protested. "It's quite French, and we
shall get one knife and fork each. There's a cinema on top, and billiards
underneath, and practically no officers go. A Belgian Captain I came out
with took me. He said you could 'eat well' there, and you can, for the
cooking is a treat. I swear it's all right."

"Lead on," said Julie; "we'll trust you," and she manoeuvred so that her
half-section was left with Donovan.

The four walked briskly through the dusk. "Don't you love France in the
evening?" demanded Julie.

"Yes," said Peter, but dubiously. "I don't know it much yet," he added.

"Oh, I do. Even a girl can almost do what she likes out here. I've had
some awful fun in Havre. I think one ought to take one's pleasure when
one has the chance, don't you? But some of these girls give me the hump;
they're so narrow. They can't see you with a man without imagining all
sorts of things, whereas I've had some rattling good pals among men out
here. Then they're so afraid of doing things--the girls, I mean. Do you
know I went to Paris when I came up here from Boulogne? Had absolutely
_the_ time. Of course, nobody knows, so don't speak of it--except Tommy,
of course."

"How did you do it?" demanded Peter, amused.

"Well, you see, I and another girl, English, were sent over by Boulogne,
as you know, because you saw us on the boat, and we were supposed to come
straight here. In the train we met a Canadian in the French Air Service,
and he put us wise about changing, and so on. But it appeared you have
to change at Amiens in the middle of the night, and he said the thing was
to sleep in the train and go right on to Paris. Then you got twenty-four
hours there, and left next day by the Havre express. The girl was
horribly scared, but I said we'd try it. Nothing happened at all. We had
a carriage to ourselves, and merely sat still at Amiens. When we got
to Paris we simply walked out, bold as brass. I showed our tickets at
Havre and told the French inspector we had overslept. He merely told us
the time to leave next day. We went to an hotel, and then strolled up the
Avenue de l'Opera. And what do you think? Who should I see but an old dear
of a General I knew out in South Africa who is in the French Red Cross.
He was simply delighted to see us. He motored us out to the Bois in the
afternoon, dined us, and took us to the theatre--only, by Jove! I did
curse that other girl. She was in a ferment all the time. Next morning he
had a job on, but he sent a car for us with a subaltern to put us on the
train, and we went to the R.T.O. this time. He couldn't do enough for us
when he heard the name of General de Villiers and saw his card. We got
into Havre at midday, and nobody was a penny the wiser."

Peter laughed. "You were lucky," he said; "perhaps you always are."

"No, I'm not," she said "but I usually do what I want and get through
with it. Hullo, is this the place?"

"I suppose so," said Peter. "Now for it. Look as if you'd been going to
such places all your life."

"I've probably been more often than you, anyhow, Solomon," said Julie,
and she ran lightly up the steps.

They passed through swing-doors into a larger hall brilliantly lit and
heavy with a mixed aroma of smoke and food. There was a sort of hum of
sound going on all the time and Peter looked round wonderingly. He
perceived immediately that there was an atmosphere about this French
restaurant unlike that of any he had been in before. He was, in truth,
utterly bewildered by what he saw, but he made an effort not to show it.
Julie, on the other hand, was fairly carried away. They seated themselves
at a table for four near the end of the partition, and she led the party
in gaiety. Donovan hardly took his eyes off her, and cut in with dry,
daring remarks with a natural case. Tommy played a good second to Julie,
and if she had had any fears they were not visible now.

"What about an appetiser?" demanded Donovan.

"Oh, rather! Mixed vermuth for me; but Tommy must have a very small one:
she gets drunk on nothing. Give me a cigarette now, padre; I'm dying to
smoke."

Peter produced his case. "Don't call him 'padre' here," said Donovan;
"you'll spoil his enjoyment."

"A cigarette, Solomon, then," whispered Julie, as the other turned to
beckon a _garçon_, flashing her eyes on him.

Peter resisted no longer. "Don't," he said. "Call me anything but that."
It seemed to him that there was something inevitable in it all. He did
not formulate his sensations, but it was the lure of the contrast that
won him. Ever since he had landed in France he had, as it were, hung on
to the old conventional position, and he had felt increasingly that it
was impossible to do so. True, there seemed little connection between a
dinner with a couple of madcap girls in a French restaurant and religion,
but there was one. He had felt out of touch with men and life, and now a
new phase of it was offered him. He reached out for it eagerly.

Julie leaned back and blew out a thin stream of smoke, her eyes daring
him, picking up the little glass as she did so.

_"Here's to the girl with the little grey shoes,"_ she chanted merrily.

"Don't Julie, for Heaven's sake!" pleaded Tommy. "He'll be shocked."

"Oh, go on," said Peter; "what is it?"

"Captain Donovan will finish," laughed Julie.

"'Deed I can't, for I don't know it," he said. "Let's have it, little
girl; I'm sure it's a sporting toast."

"_Who eats your grub and drinks your booze_," continued she.

"Shut up, Julie," said Tommy, leaning over as if to snatch her glass.

"_And then goes home to her mother to snooze_," called Julie
breathlessly, leaning back.

"_I don't think_," ejaculated Donovan.

Julie tipped down the drink. "You knew it all the time," she said. And
they all burst out laughing.

Peter drank, and called for another, his eyes on Julie. He knew that he
could not sum her up, but he refused to believe that this was the secret
behind the eyes. She was too gay, too insolent. What Donovan thought he
could not say, but he almost hated him for the ease with which he kept
pace with their companions.

They ordered dinner, and the great dish of _hors d'oeuvres_ was brought
round by a waiter who seemed to preside over it with a fatherly
solicitude. Julie picked up an olive in her fingers, and found it so good
that she grumbled at only having taken one.

"Have mine," said Donovan, shooting one on to her plate.

"Thanks," she said. "Oh, heavens! I forgot that patch on my left
cheek--or was it my right, Solomon? Let's see."

She dived into her pocket, and produced a tiny satin beaded box, "Isn't
it chic?" she demanded, leaning over to show Donovan. "I got it in the
Nouvelles Galeries the other day." She took off the lid, which revealed
its reverse as a tiny mirror, and scrutinised herself, patting back a
stray lock on her forehead.

"Oh, don't," said Donovan, and he slipped the hair out again with his
finger.

"Be quiet; but I'll concede that. This won't do, though." Out came a tiny
powder-puff. "How's that?" she demanded, smiling up at him.

"Perfect," he said. "But it's not fair to do that here."

"Wait for the taxi then," she said. "Besides, it won't matter so much
then."

"What won't matter?" demanded Peter.

"Solomon, dear, you're as innocent as a new-born babe. Isn't he?" she
demanded of his friend.

Donovan looked across at him. "Still waters run deep," he said. "I don't
know, but excuse me!"

He had been sitting next Julie and opposite Miss Raynard, but he was now
on his feet and begging her to change places with him. She consented,
laughing, and did so, but Julie pretended to be furious.

"I won't have it. You're a perfect beast, Tommy. Captain Donovan, I'll
never come out with you again. Solomon, come and sit here, and you,
Tommy, go over there."

Peter hadn't an idea why, but he too got up. Tommy protested. "Look
here," she said, "I came for dinner, not for a dance. Oh, look out,
Captain Graham; you'll upset the cutlets!" Peter avoided the waiter by an
effort, but came on round her to the other side.

"Get out of it, Tommy," said Julie, leaning over and pushing her. "I will
have a man beside me, anyhow."

"I'd sooner be opposite," said Donovan. "I can see you better, and you
can't make eyes at the Frenchman at the other table quite so well if I
get my head in the way."

"Oh, but he's such a dear," said Julie. "I'd love to flirt with him. Only
I must say his hair is a bit greasy."

"You'll make his lady furious if you don't take care," said Donovan, "and
it's a shame to spoil her trade."

Peter glanced across. A French officer, sitting opposite a painted girl,
was smiling at them. He looked at Julie; she was smiling back.

"Julie, don't for Heaven's sake," said her half-section. "We shall have
him over here next, and you remember once before how awkward it was."

Julie laughed. "Give me another drink, then, Captain Donovan," she said,
"and I'll be good."

Donovan filled up her glass. She raised it and challenged him. "_Here's
to we two in Blighty_," she began.

Miss Raynard rose determinedly and interrupted her. "Come on," she said;
"that's a bit too much, Julie. We must go, or we'll never get back, and
don't forget you've got to go on duty in the morning, my dear." She
pulled out a little watch. "Good heavens!" she cried. "Do you know the
time? It's eight-twenty now. We ought to have been in by eight, and
eighty-thirty is the latest time that's safe. For any sake, come on."

Julie for once agreed. "Good Lord, yes," she said. "We must have a taxi.
Can we get one easily?"

"Oh, I expect so," said Donovan. "Settle up, Graham, will you? while I
shepherd them out and get a car. Come on, and take care how you pass the
Frenchman."

In a few minutes Peter joined them on the steps outside. The restaurant
was in the corner of a square which contained a small public garden, and
the three of them were waiting for him on the curb. A taxi stood by them.
The broad streets ran away to left and right, gay with lights and
passers-by, and the dark trees stood out against a starry sky. A group of
British officers went laughing by, and one of them recognised Donovan and
hailed him. Two spahis crossed out of the shade into the light, their red
and gold a picturesque splash of colour. Behind them glared the staring
pictures of the cinema show on a great hoarding by the wall.

"Come on, Graham," called Donovan, "hop in."

The four packed in closely, Peter and Tommy opposite the other two, Julie
farthest from Peter. They started, and he caught her profile as the
street lights shone in and out with the speed of their passing. She was
smoking, puffing quickly at her cigarette, and hardly silent a moment.

"It's been a perfect treat," she said. "You're both dears, aren't they,
Tommy? You must come and have tea at the hospital any day: just walk in.
Mine's Ward 3. Come about four o'clock, and you'll find me any day this
week, Tommy's opposite. There's usually a crush at tea, but you must
come. By the way, where's your camp? Aren't you going heaps out of your
way? Solomon, where do you live? Tell me."

Peter grinned in the dark, and told her.

"Oh, you perfect beast!" she said, "Then you knew the Quai de France all
the time. Well, you're jolly near, anyway." "Oh, Lord!" she exclaimed
suddenly, "you aren't the new padre?"

"I am," said Peter.

"Good Lord! what a spree! Then you'll come in on duty. You can come in
any hour of the day or night. Tommy, do you hear that? Solomon's our
spiritual pastor. He's begun well, hasn't he?"

Peter was silent. It jarred him horribly. But just then the car slowed
down.

"What's up now?" demanded Donovan.

"Only the sentry at the swing bridge," said Tommy. "They stop all cars at
night. He's your side, dear; give him the glad eye."

The door opened, and a red-cap looked in. "Hospital, corporal; it's all
right," said Julie, beaming at him.

"Oh, all right, miss. Good-night," said the man, stepping back and
saluting in the light of the big electric standard at the bridgehead.
"Carry on, driver!"

"We're just there," said Julie; "I am sorry. It's been rippin'. Stop the
car, Solomon, somewhere near the leave-boat; it won't do to drive right
up to the hospital; we might be spotted."

Peter leaned out of the window on his side. The lights on the quay glowed
steadily across the dark water, and made golden flicking streaks upon it
as the tide swelled slowly in. In the distance a great red eye flashed in
and out solemnly, and on their side he could see the shaded lights of the
hospital ship, getting ready for her night crossing. He judged it was
time, and told the man to stop.

"Where's my powder-puff?" demanded Julie. "I believe you've bagged it,
Captain Donovan. No, it's here. Skip out, Tommy. Is anyone about?"

"No," said the girl from the step. "But don't wait all night. We'd best
run for it."

"Well, good-night," said Julie. "You have both been dears, but whether
I'm steady enough to get in safely I don't know. Still, Tommy's a rock.
See you again soon. Good-bye-ee!"

She leaned forward. "_Now_, if you're good," she said to Donovan. He
kissed her, laughing; and before he knew what she was doing, she reached
over to Peter, kissed him twice on the lips, and leaped lightly out. "Be
good," she said, "and if you can't, be careful."

CHAPTER VII

Following a delay of some days, there had been a fairly heavy mail, and
Peter took his letters to the little terrace by the sea outside the mess,
and sat in the sun to read them. While he was so occupied Arnold appeared
with a pipe, but, seeing him engaged, went back for a novel and a
deck-chair. It was all very peaceful and still, and beyond occasional
hammering from, the leisurely construction of the outer harbour wall and
once or twice the siren of a signalling steamer entering the docks, there
was nothing to disturb them at all. Perhaps half an hour passed, then
Peter folded up some sheets, put them in his pocket, and walked moodily
to the edge of the concrete, staring down, at the lazy slushing of the
tide against: the wall below him.

He kicked a pebble discontentedly into the water, and turned to look, at
Arnold. The older man was stretched out: in his chair smoking a pipe and
regarding him. A slow smile passed between them.

"No, hang it all," said Peter; "there's nothing to smile about, Arnold,
I've pretty well got to the end of my tether."

"Meaning what exactly?" queried the other.

"Oh, well, you know enough already to guess the rest.... Look here,
Arnold, you and. I are fairly good pals now, I'd just like to tell you
exactly what I feel."

"Sit down then, man, and get it out. There's a chair yonder, and you've
got the forenoon before ye. I'm a heretic and all that sort of thing, of
course, but perhaps that'll make it easier. I take it it's a kind of
heretic you're becoming yourself."

Peter pulled up a chair and got out his own pipe. "Arnold," he said, "I'm
too serious to joke, and I don't know that I'm even a Christian heretic.
I don't know what I am and where I stand. I wish I did; I wish I even
knew how much I disbelieved, for then I'd know what to do. But it's not
that my dogmas have been attacked and weakened. I've no new light on the
Apostles' Creed and no fresh doubts about it. I could still argue for the
Virgin Birth of Christ and the Trinity, and so on. But it's worse than
that. I feel ..." He broke off abruptly and pulled at his pipe. The other
said nothing. They were friends enough by now to understand each other.
In a little while the younger man found the words he wanted.

"Look here, it's like this. I remember once, on the East Coast, coming
across a stone breakwater high and dry in a field half a mile from the
sea. There was nothing the matter with the breakwater, and it served
admirably for certain purposes--a seat, for instance, or a shady place
for a picnic. But it was no longer of any vital use in the world, for the
sea had receded and left it there. Now, that's just what I feel. I had a
religion; I suppose it had its weaknesses and its faults; but most of it
was good sound stone, and it certainly had served. But it serves no
longer, not because it's damaged, but because the need for it has changed
its nature or is no longer there." He trailed off into silence and
stopped.

Arnold stirred to get out his pouch. "The sea is shifty, though," he
said. "If they keep the breakwater in decent repair, it'll come in handy
again."

"Yes," burst out Peter. "But, of course, that's where illustrations are
so little good: you can't press them. And in any case no engineer worth
his salt would sit down by his breakwater and smoke a pipe till the sea
came in handy again. His job is to go after it."

"True for ye, boy. But if the old plan was so good, why not go down to
the beach and get on with building operations of the same sort?"

"Arnold," said Peter, "you couldn't have put it better. That's exactly
what I came here to do. I knew in London that the sea was receding to
some extent, and I thought that there was a jolly good chance to get up
with it again out here. But that leads straight to my second problem:
I can't build on the old plan, and it doesn't seem any good. It's as
if our engineer found quicksands that wouldn't hold his stone, and
cross-currents that smashed up all his piles.... I mean, I thought I knew
what would save souls. But I find that I can't because my methods are--I
don't know, faulty perhaps, out of date maybe possibly worse; and, what
is more, the souls don't want my saving. The Lord knows they want
something; I can see that fast enough, but what it is I don't know.
Heavens! I remember preaching in the beginning of the war from the text
'Jesus had compassion on the multitude.' Well I don't feel that He has
changed, and I'm quite sure He still has compassion, but the multitude
doesn't want it. I was wrong about the crowd. It's nothing like what I
imagined. The crowd isn't interested in Jesus any more. It doesn't
believe in Him. It's a different sort of crowd altogether from the one He
led."

"I wonder," said Arnold.

Peter moved impatiently. "Well, I don't see how you can," he said. "Do
you think Tommy worries about his sins? Are the men in our mess
miserable? Does the girl the good books talked about, who flirts and
smokes and drinks and laughs, sit down by night on the edge of her little
white bed and feel a blank in her life? Does she, Arnold?"

"I'm blest if I know; I haven't been there! You seem to know a precious
lot about it," he added dryly.

"Oh, don't rag and don't be facetious. If you do, I shall clear. I'm
trying to talk sense, and at any rate it's what I feel. And I believe you
know I'm right too." Peter was plainly a bit annoyed.

The elder padre sat up straight at that, and his tone changed. He stared
thoughtfully out to sea and did not smoke. But he did not speak all at
once. Peter glanced at him, and then lay back in his chair and waited.

Arnold spoke at last: possibly the harbour works inspired him. "Look
here, boy," he said, "let's get back to your illustration, which is no
such a bad one. What do you suppose your engineer would do when he got
down to the new sea-beach and found the conditions you described? It
wouldn't do much good if he sat down and cursed the blessed sea and the
sands and the currents, would it? It would be mighty little use if he
blamed his good stone and sound timber, useless though they appeared.
I'm thinking he'd be no much of an engineer either if he chucked his
job. What would he do, d'you think?"

"Go on," said Peter, interested.

"Well," said the speaker in parables, "unless I'm mighty mistaken, he'd
get down first to studying the new conditions. He'd find they'd got laws
governing them, same as the old--different laws maybe, but things you
could perhaps reckon with if you knew them. And when he knew them, I
reckon he'd have a look at his timber and stone and iron, and get out
plans. Maybe, these days, he'd help out with a few tons of reinforced
concrete, and get in a bit o' work with some high explosive. I'm no
saying. But if he came from north of the Tweed, my lad," he added, with a
twinkle in his eye and a touch of accent, "I should be verra surprised
if that foreshore hadn't a breakwater that would do its duty in none so
long a while."

"And if he came from south of the Tweed, and found himself in France?"
queried Peter.

"I reckon he'd get down among the multitude and make a few inquiries,"
said Arnold, more gravely. "I reckon he wouldn't be in too great a hurry,
and he wouldn't believe all he saw and heard without chewing on it a bit,
as our Yankee friends say. And he'd know well enough that there was
nothing wrong with his Master, and no change in His compassion, only,
maybe, that he had perhaps misunderstood both a little."

A big steamer hooted as she came up the river, and the echoes of the
siren died out slowly among the houses that climbed up the hill behind
them.

Then Peter put his hand up and rested his head upon it, shading his face.

"That's difficult--and dangerous, Arnold" he said.

"It is that, laddie," the other answered quickly. "There was a time when
I would have thought it too difficult and too dangerous for a boy of
mine. But I've had a lesson or two to learn out here as well as other
folks. Up the line men have learnt not to hesitate at things because they
are difficult and dangerous. And I'll tell you something else we've
learnt--that it is better for half a million to fail in the trying than
for the thing not to be tried at all."

"Arnold," said Peter, "what about yourself? Do you mind my asking? Do you
feel this sort of thing at all, and, if so, what's your solution?"

The padre from north of the Tweed knocked the ashes out of his pipe and
got up, "Young man," he said, "I don't mind your asking, but I'm getting
old, and my answering wouldn't do either of us any good, if I have a
solution I don't suppose it would be yours. Besides, a man can't save his
brother, and not even a father can save his son .... I've nothing to tell
ye, except, maybe, this: don't fear and don't falter, and wherever you
get to, remember that God is there. David is out of date these days,
and very likely it wasn't David at all, but I don't know anything truer
in the auld book than yon verse where it says: 'Though I go down into
hell, Thou art there also.'"

"I beg your pardon, padre," said a drawling voice behind them. "I caught
a word just now which I understand no decent clergyman uses except in the
pulpit. If, therefore, you are preaching, I will at once and discreetly
withdraw, but if not, for his very morals' sake, I will withdraw your
congregation--that is, if he hasn't forgotten his engagement."

Graham jumped up. "Good Heavens, Pennell!" he exclaimed, "I'm blest if I
hadn't." He pushed his arm out and glanced at his watch. "Oh, there's
plenty of time, anyway. I'm lunching with this blighter down town, padre,
at some special restaurant of his," he explained, "and I take it the sum
and substance of his unseemly remarks are that he thinks we ought to get
a move on."

"Don't let me stand in the way of your youthful pleasures," said Arnold,
smiling; "but take care of yourself, Graham. Eat and drink, for to-morrow
you die; but don't eat and drink too much in case you live to the day
after."

"I'll remember," said Peter, "but I hope it won't be necessary. However,
you never know 'among the multitude,' do you?" he added.

Arnold caught up the light chair and lunged out at him. "Ye unseemly
creature," he shouted, "get out of it and leave me in peace."

Pennell and Peter left the camp and crossed the swing bridge into the
maze of docks. Threading their way along as men who knew it thoroughly
they came at length to the main roadway, with its small, rather smelly
shops, its narrow side-streets almost like Edinburgh closes, and its
succession of sheds and offices between which one glimpsed the water.
Just here, the war had made a difference. There was less pleasure traffic
up Seine and along Channel, though the Southampton packet ran as
regularly as if no submarine had ever been built. Peter liked Pennell.
He was an observant creature of considerable decencies, and a good
companion. He professed some religion, and although it was neither
profound nor apparently particularly vital, it helped to link the two
men. As they went on, the shops grew a little better, but no restaurant
was visible that offered much expectation.

"Where in the world are you taking me?" demanded Peter. "I don't mind
slums in the way of business, but I prefer not to go to lunch in them."

"Wait and see, my boy," returned his companion, "and don't protest till
it's called for. Even then wait a bit longer, and your sorrow shall be
turned into joy--and that's Scripture. Great Scott! see what comes of
fraternising with padres! _Now._"

So saying he dived in to the right down a dark passage, into which the
amazed Peter followed him. He had already opened a door at the end of it
by the time Peter got there, and was halfway up a flight of wood stairs
that curved up in front of them out of what was, obviously, a kitchen.
A huge man turned his head as Peter came in, and surveyed him silently,
his hands dexterously shaking a frying-pan over a fire as he did so.

"Bon jour, monsieur," said Peter politely.

Monsieur grunted, but not unpleasantly, and Peter gripped the banister
and commenced to ascend. Half-way up he was nearly sent flying down
again. A rosy-cheeked girl, short and dark, with sparkling eyes, had
thrust herself down between him and the rail from a little landing above,
and was shouting:

"Une omelette aux champignons. Jambon. Pommes sautes, s'il vous plait."

Peter recovered himself and smiled. "Bon jour, mademoiselle," he said,
this time. In point of fact, he could say very little else.

"Bon jour, monsieur," said, the girl, and something else that he could
not catch, but by this time he had reached the top in time to witness a
little 'business' there. A second girl, taller, older, slower, but
equally smiling, was taking Pennell's cap and stick and gloves, making
play with her eyes the while. "Merci, chérie," he heard his friend say
and then, in a totally different voice: "Ah! Bon jour Marie."

A third girl was before them. In her presence the other two withdrew. She
was tall, plain, shrewd of face, with reddish hair, but she smiled even
as the others. It was little more than a glance that Peter got, for she
called an order (at which the first girl again disappeared down the
stairs) greeted Pennell, replied to his question that there were two
places, and was out of sight again in the room, seemingly all at once. He
too, then, surrendered cap and stick, and followed his companion in.

There were no more than four tables in the little room--two for six, and
two for four or five. Most were filled, but he and Pennell secured two
seats with their backs to the wall opposite a couple of Australian
officers who had apparently just commenced. Peter's was by the window,
and he glanced out to see the sunlit street below, the wide sparkling
harbour, and right opposite the hospital he had now visited several times
and his own camp near it. There was the new green of spring shoots in the
window-boxes, snowy linen on the table, a cheerful hum of conversation
about him, and an oak-panelled wall behind that had seen the Revolution.

"Pennell," he said, "you're a marvel. The place is perfect."

By the time they had finished Peter was feeling warmed and friendly, the
Australians had been joined to their company, and the four spent an idle
afternoon cheerfully enough. There was nothing in strolling through the
busy streets, joking a little over very French picture post-cards,
quizzing the passing girls, standing in a queue at Cox's, and finally
drawing a fiver in mixed French notes, or in wandering through a huge
shop of many departments to buy some toilet necessities. But it was good
fun. There was a comradeship, a youthfulness, carelessness, about it all
that gripped Peter. He let himself go, and when he did so he was a good
companion.

One little incident in the Grand Magasin completed his abandonment to the
day and the hour. They were ostensibly buying a shaving-stick, but at the
moment were cheerily wandering through the department devoted to
_lingerie_. The attendant girls, entirely at ease, were trying to
persuade the taller of the two Australians, whom his friend addressed
as "Alex," to buy a flimsy lace nightdress "for his fiancée," readily
pointing out that he would find no difficulty in getting rid of it
elsewhere if he had not got such a desirable possession, when Peter heard
an exclamation behind him.

"Hullo!" said a girl's voice; "fancy finding you here!" He turned quickly
and blushed. Julie laughed merrily.

"Caught out," she said, "Tell me what you're buying, and for whom. A
blouse, a camisole, or worse?"

"I'm not buying," said Peter, recovering his ease. "We're just strolling
round, and that girl insists that my friend the Australian yonder should
buy a nightie for his fiancée. He says he hasn't one, so she is
persuading him that he can easily pick one up. What do you think?"

She glanced over at the little group. "Easier than some people I know,
I should think," she said, smiling, taking in his six feet of bronzed
manhood. "But it's no use your buying it. I wear pyjamas, silk, and I
prefer Venns'."

"I'll remember," said Peter. "By the way, I'm coming to tea again
to-morrow."

"That will make three times this week," she said. "But I suppose you
will go round the ward first." Then quickly, for Peter looked slightly
unhappy: "Next week I've a whole day off."

"No?" he said eagerly "Oh, do let's fix something up. Will you come out
somewhere?"

Her eyes roved across to Pennell, who was bearing down upon them. "We'll
fix it up to-morrow," she said. "Bring Donovan, and I'll get Tommy. And
now introduce me nicely."

He did so, and she talked for a few minutes, and then went off to join
some friends, who had moved on to another department. "By Jove," said
Pennell, "that's some girl! I see now why you are so keen on the
hospital, old dear. Wish I were a padre."

"I shall be padre in ..." began Alex, but Peter cut him short.

"Oh, Lord," he said, "I'm tired of that! Come on out of it, and let's get
a refresher somewhere. What's the club like here?"

"Club's no good," said Pennell. "Let's go to Travalini's and introduce
the padre. He's not been there yet."

"I thought everyone knew it," said the other Australian--rather
contemptuously, Peter thought. What with one thing and another, he felt
suddenly that he'd like to go. He remembered how nearly he had gone there
in other company. "Come on, then," he said, and led the way out.

There was nothing in Travalini's to distinguish it from many other such
places--indeed, to distinguish it from the restaurant in which Peter,
Donovan, and the girls had dined ten days or so before, except that it
was bigger, more garish, more expensive, and, consequently, more British
in patronage. The restaurant was, however, separated more completely
from the drinking-lounge, in which, among palms, a string-band played.
There was an hotel above besides, and that helped business, but one could
come and go innocently enough, for all that there was "anything a
gentleman wants," as the headwaiter, who talked English, called himself a
Belgian, and had probably migrated from over the Rhine, said. Everybody,
indeed, visited the place now and again. Peter and his friends went in
between the evergreen shrubs in their pots, and through the great glass
swing-door, with every assurance. The place seemed fairly full. There was
a subdued hum of talk and clink of glasses; waiters hurried to and fro;
the band was tuning up. British uniforms predominated, but there were
many foreign officers and a few civilians. There were perhaps a couple of
dozen girls scattered about the place besides.

The friends found a corner with a big plush couch which took three of
them, and a chair for Alex. A waiter bustled up and they ordered drinks,
which came on little saucers marked with the price. Peter lay back
luxuriously.

"Chin-chin," said the other Australian, and the others responded.

"That's good," said Pennell.

"Not so many girls here this afternoon," remarked Alex carelessly. "See,
Dick, there's that little Levantine with the thick dark hair. She's
caught somebody."

Peter looked across in the direction indicated. The girl, in a cerise
costume with a big black hat, short skirt, and dainty bag, was sitting in
a chair halfway on to them and leaning over the table before her. As he
watched, she threw her head back and laughed softly. He caught the gleam
of a white throat and of dark sloe eyes.

"She's a pretty one," said Pennell. "God! but they're queer little bits
of fluff, these girls. It beats me how they're always gay, and always
easy to get and to leave. And they get rottenly treated sometimes."

"Yes I'm damned if I understand them," said Alex. "Now, padre, I'll tell
you something that's more in your way than mine, and you can see what you
make of it. I was in a maison tolerée the other day--you know the sort
of thing--and there were half a dozen of us in the sitting-room with the
girls, drinking fizz. I had a little bit of a thing with fair hair--she
couldn't have been more than seventeen at most, I reckon--with a laugh
that did you good to hear, and, by gum! we wanted to be cheered just
then, for we had had a bit of a gruelling on the Ancre and had been
pulled out of the line to refit. She sat there with an angel's face, a
chemise transparent except where it was embroidered, and not much else,
and some of the women were fair beasts. Well, she moved on my knee, and I
spilt some champagne and swore--'Jesus Christ!' I said. Do you know, she
pushed back from me as if I had hit her! 'Oh, don't say His Name!' she
said. 'Promise me you won't say it again. Do you not know how He loved
us?' I was so taken aback that I promised, and to tell you the truth,
padre, I haven't said it since. What do you think of that?"

Peter shook his head and drained his glass. He couldn't have spoken at
once; the little story, told in such a place, struck him so much. Then he
asked: "But is that all? How did she come to be there?"

"Well," Alex said, "that's just as strange. Father was in a French
cavalry regiment, and got knocked out on the Marne. They lived in Arras
before the war, and you can guess that there wasn't much left of the
home. One much older sister was a widow with a big family; the other was
a kid of ten or eleven, so this one went into the business to keep the
family going. Fact. The mother used to come and see her, and I got to
know her. She didn't seem to mind: said the doctors looked after them
well, and the girl was making good money. Hullo!" he broke off, "there's
Louise," and to Peter's horror he half-rose and smiled across at a girl
some few tables away.

She got up and came over, beamed on them all, and took the seat Alex
vacated. "Good-evening," she said, in fair English, scrutinising them.
"What is it you say, 'How's things'?"

Alex pressed a drink on her and beckoned the waiter. She took a syrup,
the rest martinis. Peter sipped his, and watched her talking to Alex and
Pennell. The other Australian got up and crossed the room, and sat down
with some other men.

The stories he had heard moved him profoundly. He wondered if they were
true, but he seemed to see confirmation in the girl before him. Despite
some making up, it was a clean face, if one could say so. She was
laughing and talking with all the ease in the world, though Peter noticed
that her eyes kept straying round the room. Apparently his friends had
all her attention, but he could see it was not so. She was on the watch
for clients, old or new. He thought how such a girl would have disgusted
him a few short weeks ago, but he did not feel disgusted now. He could
not. He did not know what he felt. He wondered, as he looked, if she were
one of "the multitude," and then the fragment of a text slipped through
his brain: "The Friend of publicans and sinners." "_The_ Friend": the
little adjective struck him as never before. Had they ever had another?
He frowned to himself at the thought, and could not help wondering
vaguely what his Vicar or the Canon would have done in Travalini's. Then
he wondered instantly what that Other would have done, and he found no
answer at all.

"Yes, but I do not know your friend yet," he heard the girl say, and saw
she was being introduced to Pennell. She held out a decently gloved hand
with a gesture that startled him--it was so like Hilda's. Hilda! The
comparison dazed him. He fancied he could see her utter disgust, and then
he involuntarily shook his head; it would be too great for him to
imagine. What would she have made of the story he had just heard? He
concluded she would flatly disbelieve it....

But Julie? He smiled to himself, and then, for the first time, suddenly
asked himself what he really felt towards Julie. He remembered that first
night and the kiss, and how he had half hated it, half liked it. He felt
now, chiefly, anger that Donovan had had one too. One? But he, Peter,
had had two.... Then he called himself a damned fool; it was all of a
piece with her extravagant and utterly unconventional madness. But what,
then, would she say to this? Had she anything in common with it?

He played with that awhile, blowing out thoughtful rings of smoke. It
struck him that she had, but he was fully aware that that did not
disgust him in the least. It almost fascinated him, just as--that _was_
it--Hilda's disgust would repel him. Why? He hadn't an idea.

"Monsieur le Capitaine is very dull," said a girl's voice at his elbow.
He started: Louise had moved to the sofa and was smiling at him. He
glanced towards his companions, Alex was standing, finishing a last
drink; Pennell staring at Louise.

He looked back at the girl, straight into her eyes, and could not read
them in the least. The darkened eyebrows and the glitter in them baffled
him. But he must speak, "Am I?" he said. "Forgive me, mademoiselle; I was
thinking."

"Of your fiancée--is it not so? Ah! The Capitaine has his fiancée, then?
In England? Ah, well, the girls in England do not suffer like we girls in
France.... They are proud, too, the English misses. I know, for I have
been there, to--how do you call it?--Folkestone. They walk with the head
in the air," and she tilted up her chin so comically that Peter smiled
involuntarily.

"No, I do not like them," went on the girl deliberately. "They are
only half alive, I think. I almost wish the Boche had been in your
land.... They are cold, la! And not so very nice to kiss, eh?"

"They're not all like that," said Pennell.

"Ah, non? But you like the girls of France the best, mon ami; is it not
so?" She leaned across towards him significantly.

Pennell laughed. "_Now_, yes, perhaps," he said deliberately; "but after
the war ..." and he shrugged his shoulders, like a Frenchman.

A shade passed over the girl's face, and she got up. "It is so," she
said lightly. "Monsieur speaks very true--oh, very true! The girls of
France now--they are gay, they are alive, they smile, and it is war, and
you men want these things. But after--oh, I know you English--you'll go
home and be--how do you say?--'respectable,' and marry an English miss,
and have--oh! many, many bébés, and wear the top-hat, and go to church.
There is no country like England...." She made a little gesture. "What do
you believe, you English? In le bon Dieu? Non. In love? Ah, non! In what,
then? Je ne sais!" She laughed again. "What 'ave I said? Forgive me,
monsieur, and you also, Monsieur le Capitaine. But I do see a friend of
mine. See, I go! Bon soir."

She looked deliberately at Peter a moment, then smiled comprehensively
and left them. Peter saw that Alex had gone already; he asked no
questions, but looked at Pennell inquiringly.

"I think so, padre; I've had enough of it to-night. Let's clear. We can
get back in time for mess."

They went out into the darkening streets, crossed an open square, and
turned down a busy road to the docks. They walked quickly, but Peter
seemed to himself conscious of everyone that passed. He scanned faces,
as if to read a riddle in them. There were men who lounged by, gay,
reckless, out for fun plainly, but without any other sinister thought,
apparently. There were Tommies who saluted and trudged on heavily. There
were a couple of Yorkshire boys who did not notice them, flushed, animal,
making determinedly for a destination down the street. There was one man
at least who passed walking alone, with a tense, greedy, hard face, and
Peter all but shuddered.

The lit shops gave way to a railed space, dark by contrast, and a tall
building of old blackened stone, here and there chipped white, loomed up.
Moved by an impulse, Peter paused, "Let's see if it's open, Pennell," he
said. "Do you mind? I won't be a second."

"Not a scrap, old man," said Pennell, "I'll come in too."

Peter walked up to a padded leather-covered door and pushed. It swung
open. They stepped in, into a faintly broken silence, and stood still.

Objects loomed up indistinctly--great columns, altars, pews. Far away a
light flickered and twinkled, and from the top of the aisle across the
church from the door by which they had entered a radiance glowed and lost
itself in the black spaces of the high roof and wide nave. Peter crossed
towards that side, and his companion followed. They trod softly, like
good Englishmen in church, and they moved up the aisle a little to see
more clearly; and so, having reached a place from which much was visible,
remained standing for a few seconds.

The light streamed from an altar, and from candles above it set around
a figure of the Mother of God. In front knelt a priest, and behind him,
straggling back in the pews, a score or so of women, some children, and
a blue-coated French soldier or two. The priest's voice sounded thin
and low: neither could hear what he said; the congregation made rapid
responses regularly, but eliding the, to them, familiar words. There was,
then, the murmur of repeated prayer, like muffled knocking on a door, and
nothing more.

"Let's go," whispered Pennell at last.

They went out, and shut the door softly behind them. As they did so, some
other door was opened noisily and banged, while footsteps began to drag
slowly across the stone floor and up the aisle they had come down. The
new-comer subsided into a pew with a clatter on the boards, but the
murmured prayers went on unbroken.

Outside the street engulfed them. The same faces passed by. A street-car
banged and clattered up towards the centre of the town, packed with
jovial people. Pennell looked towards it half longingly. "Great Scott,
Graham! I wish, now, we hadn't come away so soon," he said.

CHAPTER VIII

The lower valley of the Seine is one of the most beautiful and
interesting river-stretches in Northern Europe. It was the High Street of
old Normandy, and feuda, barons and medieval monks have left their mark
upon it. From the castle of Tancarville to the abbey of Jumièges
you can read the story of their doings; or when you stand in the Roman
circus at Lillebonne, or enter the ancient cloister of M. Maeterlinck's
modern residence at St. Wandrille, see plainly enough the writing of a
still older legend, such as appeared, once, on the wall of a palace in
Babylon. On the left bank steep hills, originally wholly clothed with
forest and still thickly wooded, run down to the river with few breaks
in them, each break, however, being garrisoned by an ancient town. Of
these, Caudebec stands unrivalled. On the right bank the flat plain of
Normandy stretches to the sky-line, pink-and-white in spring with miles
of apple-orchards. The white clouds chase across its fair blue sky,
driven by the winds from the sea, and tall poplars rise in their uniform
rows along the river as if to guard a Paradise.

Caudebec can be reached from Le Havre in a few hours, and although cars
for hire and petrol were not abundant in France at the time, one could
find a chauffeur to make the journey if one was prepared to pay. Given
fine weather, it was an ideal place for a day off in the spring. And
Peter knew it.

In the Grand Magasin Julie had talked of a day off, and a party of four
had been mooted, but when he had leisure to think of it, Peter found
himself averse to four, and particularly if one of the four were to be
Donovan. He admitted it freely to himself. Donovan was the kind of a
man, he thought, that Julie must like, and he was the kind of man, too,
to put him, Peter, into the shade. Ordinarily he asked for no better
companion, but he hated to see Julie and Jack together. He could not make
the girl out, and he wanted to do so. He wanted to know what she thought
about many things, and--incidentally, of course--what she thought about
him.

He had argued all this over next morning while shaving, and had ended
by cutting himself. It was a slight matter, but it argued a certain
absent-mindedness, and it brought him back to decency. He perceived that
he was scheming to leave his friend out, and he fought resolutely against
the idea. Therefore, that afternoon, he went to the hospital, spent a
couple of hours chatting with the men, and finally wound up in the
nurses' mess-room for tea as usual. It was a little room, long and
narrow, at the end of the biggest ward, but its windows looked over the
sea and it was convenient to the kitchen. Coloured illustrations cut from
magazines and neatly mounted on brown paper decorated the walls, but
there was little else by way of furniture or ornament except a long table
and chairs. One could get but little talk except of a scrappy kind, for
nurses came continually in and out for tea, and, indeed, Julie had only a
quarter of an hour to spare. But he got things fixed up for the following
Thursday, and he left the place to settle with Donovan.

That gentleman's company of native labour was lodged a mile or so through
the docks from Peter's camp, on the banks of the Tancarville Canal. It
was enlivened at frequent intervals, day and night, by the sirens of
tugs bringing strings of barges to the docks, whence their cargo was
borne overseas in the sea-going tramps, or, of course, taking equally
long strings to the Seine for Rouen and Paris. It was mud and cinders
underfoot, and it was walled off with corrugated-iron sheeting and
barbed wire from the attentions of some hundreds of Belgian refugees who
lived along the canal and parallel roads in every conceivable kind of
resting-place, from ancient bathing-vans to broken-down railway-trucks.
But there were trees along the canal and reeds and grass, so that there
were worse places than Donovan's camp in Le Havre.

Peter found his friend surveying the endeavours of a gang of boys to
construct a raised causeway from the officers' mess to the orderly-room,
and he promptly broached his object. Donovan was entranced with the
proposal, but he could not go. He was adamant upon it. He could possibly
have got off, but it meant leaving his something camp for a whole day,
and just at present he couldn't. Peter could get Pennell or anyone.
Another time, perhaps, but not now. For thus can the devil trap his
victims.

Peter pushed back for home on his bicycle, but stopped at the docks on
his way to look up Pennell. That gentleman was bored, weary, and inclined
to be blasphemous. It appeared that for the whole, infernal day he had
had to watch the off-loading of motor-spares, that he had had no lunch,
and that he could not get away for a day next week if he tried. "It isn't
everyone can get a day off whenever he wants to, padre," he said. "In the
next war I shall be ..." Peter turned hard on his heel, and left him
complaining to the derricks.

He was now all but cornered. There was nobody else he particularly cared
to ask unless it were Arnold, and he could not imagine Arnold and Julie
together. It appeared to him that fate was on his side; it only remained
to persuade Julie to come alone. He pedalled back to mess and dinner, and
then, about half-past eight, strolled round to the hospital again. It was
late, of course, but he was a padre, and the hospital padre, and
privileged. He knew exactly what to do, and that he was really as safe as
houses in doing it, and yet this intriguing by night made him
uncomfortable still. He told himself he was an ass to think so, but he
could not get rid of the sensation.

Julie would be on duty till 9.30, and he could easily have a couple
of minutes' conversation with her in the ward. He followed the
railway-track, then, along the harbour, and went in under the great roof
of the empty station. On the far platform a hospital train was being made
ready for its return run, but, except for a few cleaners and orderlies,
the place was empty.

An iron stairway led up from the platform to the wards above. He
ascended, and found himself on a landing with the door of the theatre
open before him. There was a light in it, and he caught the sound of
water; some pro. was cleaning up. He moved down the passage and
cautiously opened the door of the ward.

It was shaded and still. Somewhere a man breathed heavily, and another
turned in his sleep. Just beyond the red glow of the stove, with the
empty armchairs in a circle before it, were screens from which came a
subdued light. He walked softly between the beds towards them, and looked
over the top.

Inside was a little sanctum: a desk with a shaded reading-lamp, a chair,
a couch, a little table with flowers upon it and a glass and jug, and on
the floor by the couch a work-basket. Julie was at the desk writing in a
big official book, and he watched her for a moment unobserved. It was
almost as if he saw a different person from the girl he knew. She was at
work, and a certain hidden sadness showed clearly in her face. But the
little brown fringe of hair on her forehead and the dimpled chin were the
same....

"Good-evening," he whispered.

She looked up quickly, with a start, and he noticed curiously how rapidly
the laughter came back to her face. "You did startle me, Solomon," she
said. "What is it?"

"I want to speak to you a minute about Thursday," he said. "Can I come
in?"

She got up and came round the screens. "Follow me," she said, "and don't
make a noise."

She led him across the ward to the wide verandah, opening the door
carefully and leaving it open behind her, and then walked to the
balustrade and glanced down. The hospital ship had gone, and there was
no one visible on the wharf. The stars were hidden, and there was a
suggestion of mist on the harbour, through which the distant lights
seemed to flicker.

"You're coming on, Solomon," she said mockingly. "Never tell me you'd
have dared to call on the hospital to see a nurse by night a few weeks
ago! Suppose matron came round? There is no dangerous case in my ward."

"Not among the men, perhaps," said Peter mischievously. "But, look here,
about Thursday; Donovan can't go, nor Pennell, and I don't know anyone
else I want to ask."

"Well, I'll see if I can raise a man. One or two of the doctors are
fairly decent, or I can get a convalescent out of the officers'
hospital."

She had the lights behind her, and he could not see her face, but he knew
she was laughing at him, and it spurred him on. "Don't rag, Julie," he
said, "You know I want you to come alone."

There was a perceptible pause. Then: "I can't cut Tommy," she said.

"Not for once?" he urged. She turned away from him and looked down at the
water. It is curious how there come moments of apprehension in all our
lives when we want a thing, but know quite well we are mad to want it.
Julie looked into the future for a few seconds, and saw plainly, but
would not believe what she saw.

When she turned back she had her old manner completely. "You're a dear
old thing," she said, "and I'll do it. But if it gets out that I gadded
about for a day with an officer, even though he is a padre, and that we
went miles out of town, there'll be some row, my boy. Quick now! I must
get back. What's the plan?"

"Thanks awfully," said Peter. "It will be a rag. What time can you get
off?"

"Oh, after breakfast easily--say eight-thirty."

"Right. Well, take the tram-car to Harfleur--you know?--as far as it
goes. I'll be at the terminus with a car. What time must you be in?"

"I can get late leave till ten, I think," she said.

"Good! That gives us heaps of time. We'll lunch and tea in Caudebec, and
have some sandwiches for the road home."

"And if the car breaks down?"

"It won't," said Peter. "You're lucky in love, aren't you?"

She did not laugh. "I don't know," she said. "Good-night."

And then Peter had walked home, thinking of Hilda. And he had sat by the
sea, and come to the conclusion that he was a rotter, but in the web of
Fate and much to be pitied, which is like a man. And then he had played
auction till midnight and lost ten francs, and gone to bed concluding
that he was certainly unlucky--at cards.

As Peter sat in his car at the Harfleur terminus that Thursday it must be
confessed that he was largely indifferent to the beauties of the Seine
Valley that he had professedly come to see. He was nervous, to begin
with, lest he should be recognised by anyone, and he was in one of his
troubled moods. But he had not long to wait. The tram came out, and he
threw away his cigarette and walked to meet the passengers.

Julie looked very smart in the grey with its touch of scarlet, but she
was discontented with it. "If only I could put on a few glad rags," she
said as she climbed into the car, "this would be perfect. You men can't
know how a girl comes to hate uniform. It's not bad occasionally, but if
you have to wear it always it spoils chances. But I've got my new shoes
and silk stockings on," she added, sticking out a neat ankle, "and my
skirt is not vastly long, is it? Besides, underneath, if it's any
consolation to you, I've really pretty things. Uniform or not, I see no
reason why one should not feel joyful next the skin. What do you think?"

Peter agreed heartily, and tucked a rug round her. "There's the more need
for this, then," he said.

"Oh, I don't know: silk always makes me feel so comfortable that I can't
be cold. Isn't it a heavenly day? We are lucky, you know; it might have
been beastly. Lor', but I'm going to enjoy myself to-day, my dear! I warn
you. I've got to forget how Tommy looked when I put her off with excuses.
I felt positively mean."

"What did she say?" asked Peter.

"That she didn't mind at all, as she had got to write letters," said
Julie, "Solomon, Tommy's a damned good sort!... Give us a cigarette, and
don't look blue. We're right out of town."

Peter got out his case. "Don't call me Solomon to-day," he said.

Julie threw herself back in her corner and shrieked with laughter. The
French chauffeur glanced round and grimaced appreciatively, and Peter
felt a fool. "What am I to call you, then?" she demanded. "You are a
funny old thing, and now you look more of a Solomon than ever."

"Call me Peter," he said.

She looked at him, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "I'm really
beginning to enjoy myself," she said. "But, look here, you mustn't begin
like this. How in the world do you think we shall end up if you do?
You'll have nothing left to say, and I shall be worn to a rag and a
temper warding off your sentimentality."

"Julie," said Peter, "are you ever serious? I can't help it, you know, I
suppose because I am a parson, though I am such a rotten one."

"Who says you're a rotten one?"

"Everybody who tells the truth, and, besides, I know it. I feel an
absolute stummer when I go around the wards. I never can say a word to
the men."

"They like you awfully. You know little Jimmy, that kiddie who came in
the other day who's always such a brick? Well, last night I went and sat
with him a bit because he was in such pain. I told him where I was going
to-day as a secret. What do you think he said about you?"

"I don't want to know," said Peter hastily.

"Well, you shall. He said if more parsons were like you, more men would
go to church. What do you make of that, old Solomon?"

"It isn't true to start with. A few might come for a little, but they
would soon fall off. And if they didn't, they'd get no good. I don't know
what to say to them."

Julie threw away her cigarette-stump. "One sees a lot of human nature in
hospitals, my boy," she said, "and it doesn't leave one with many
illusions. But from what I've seen, I should say nobody does much good by
talking."

"You don't understand," said Peter. "Look here, I shouldn't call you
religious in a way at all Don't be angry. I don't _know_, but I don't
think so, and I don't think you can possibly know what I mean."

"I used to do the flowers in church regularly at home," she said. "I
believe in God, though you think I don't."

Peter sighed. "Let's change the subject," he said. "Have you seen any
more of that Australian chap lately?"

"Rather! He's engaged to a girl I know, and I reckon I'm doing her a good
turn by sticking to him. He's a bit of a devil, you know, but I think I
can keep him off the French girls a bit."

Peter looked at her curiously. "You know what he is, and you don't mind
then?" he said.

"Good Lord, no!" she replied. "My dear boy, I know what men are. It isn't
in their nature to stick to one girl only. He loves Edie all right, and
he'll make her a good husband one day, if she isn't too particular and
inquisitive. If I were married, I'd give my husband absolute liberty--and
I'd expect it in return. But I shall never marry. There isn't a man who
can play fair. They'll take their own pleasures, but they are all as
jealous as possible. I've seen it hundreds of times."

"You amaze me," said Peter. "Let's talk straight. Do you mean to say that
if you were married and your husband ran up to Paris for a fortnight, and
you knew exactly what he'd gone for, you wouldn't mind?"

"No," she declared roundly. "I wouldn't. He'd come back all the more fond
of me, I'd know I'd be a fool to expect anything else."

Peter stared at her. She was unlike anything he had ever seen. Her moral
standards, if she had any, he added mentally, were so different from his
own that he was absolutely floored. He thought grimly that alone in a
motor-car he had got among the multitude with a vengeance. "Have you
ever been in love?" he demanded.

She laughed. "Solomon, you're the quaintest creature. Do you think I'd
tell you if I had been? You never ought to ask anyone that. But if you
want to know, I've been in love hundreds of times. It's a queer disease,
but not serious--at least, not if you don't take it too seriously."

"You don't know what love is at all," he said.

She faced him fairly and unashamed. "I do," she said, "It's an animal
passion for the purpose of populating the earth. And if you ask me, I
think it is rather a dirty trick on the part of God."

"You don't mean that," he said, distressed.

She laughed again merrily, and slipped her hand into his under the rug.
"Peter," she said--"there, am I not good? You aren't made to worry about
these things. I don't know that anyone is. We can't help ourselves, and
the best thing is to take our pleasures when we can find them. I suppose
you'll be shocked at me, but I'm not going to pretend. I wasn't built
that way. If this were a closed car I'd give you a kiss."

"I don't want that sort of a kiss," he said. "That was what you gave me
the other night. I want...."

"You don't know what you want, my dear, though you think you do. You
shouldn't be so serious. I'm sure I kiss very nicely--plenty of men think
so? anyway, and if there is nothing in that sort of kiss, why not kiss?
Is there a Commandment against it? I suppose our grandmothers thought so,
but we don't. Besides, I've been east of Suez, where there ain't no ten
Commandments. There's only one real rule left in life for most of us,
Peter, and that's this: 'Be a good pal, and don't worry.'"

Peter sighed. "You and I were turned out differently, Julie," he said.
"But I like you awfully. You attract me so much that I don't know how to
express it. There's nothing mean about you, and nothing sham. And I
admire your pluck beyond words. It seems to me that you've looked life in
the face and laughed. Anybody can laugh at death, but very few of us at
life. I think I'm terrified of it. And that's the awful part about it
all, for I ought to know the secret, and I don't. I feel an absolute
hypocrite at times--when I take a service, for example. I talk about
things I don't understand in the least, even about God, and I begin
to think I know nothing about Him...." He broke off, utterly miserable.

"Poor old boy," she said softly; "is it as bad as that?"

He turned to her fiercely. "You darling!" he said, carried away by her
tone. "I believe I'd rather have you than--than God!"

She did not move in her corner, nor did she smile now. "I wonder," she
said slowly. "Peter, it's you that hate shams, not I. It's you that are
brave, not I. I play with shams because I know they're shams, but I like
playing with them. But you are greater than I. You are not content with
playing. One of these days--oh, I don't know...." She broke off and
looked away.

Peter gripped her hand tightly. "Don't, little girl," he said. "Let's
forget for to-day. Look at those primroses; they're the first I've seen.
Aren't they heavenly?"

They ran into Caudebec in good time, and lunched at an hotel overlooking
the river, with great enthusiasm. To Peter it was utterly delicious to
have her by him. She was as gay as she could possibly be, and made fun
over everything. Sitting daintily before him, her daring, unconventional
talk carried him away. She chose the wine, and after _dèjeuner_ sat with
her elbows on the table, puffing at a cigarette, her brown eyes alight
with mischief, apparently without a thought for to-morrow.

"Oh, I say," she said, "do look at that party in the corner. The old
Major's well away, and the girl'll have a job to keep him in hand, I
wonder where they're from? Rouen, perhaps; there was a car at the door.
What do you think of the girl?"

Peter glanced back. "No better than she ought to be," he said.

"No, I don't suppose so, but they are gay, these French girls. I don't
wonder men like them. And they have a hard time. I'd give them a leg up
any day if I could. I can't, though, so if ever you get a chance do it
for me, will you?"

Peter assented. "Come on," he said. "Finish that glass if you think you
can, and let's get out."

"Here's the best, then, I've done. What are we going to see?"

For a couple of hours they wandered round the old town, with its narrow
streets and even fifteenth-century houses, whose backs actually leaned
over the swift little river that ran all but under the place to the
Seine. They penetrated through an old mill to its back premises, and
climbed precariously round the water-wheel to reach a little moss-grown
platform from which the few remaining massive stones of the Norman wall
and castle could still be seen. The old abbey kept them a good while,
Julie interested Peter enormously as they walked about its cool aisles,
and tried to make out the legends of its ancient glass. She had nothing
of that curious kind of shyness most people have in a church, and that he
would certainly have expected of her. She joked and laughed a little in
it--at a queer row of mutilated statues packed into a kind of chapel to
keep quiet out of the way till wanted, at the vivid red of the Red Sea
engulfing Pharaoh and all his host--but not in the least irreverently. He
recalled a saying of a book he had once read in which a Roman Catholic
priest had defended the homeliness of an Italian congregation by saying
that it was right for them to be at home in their Father's House. It
was almost as if Julie were at home, yet he shrank from the inference.

She was entirely ignorant of everything, except perhaps, of a little
biblical history, but she made a most interested audience. Once he
thought she was perhaps egging him on for his own pleasure, but when he
grew more silent she urged him to explain. "It's ripping going round with
somebody who knows something," she said. "Most of the men one meets know
absolutely nothing. They're very jolly, but one gets tired. I could
listen to you for ages."

Peter assured her that he was almost as ignorant as they, but she was
shrewdly insistent. "You read more, and you understand what you read,"
she said. "Most people don't. I know."

They bought picture post-cards off a queer old woman in a peasant
head-dress, and then came back to the river and sat under the shade of
a line of great trees to wait for the tea the hotel had guaranteed them.
Julie now did all the talking--of South Africa, of gay adventures in
France and on the voyage, and of the men she had met. She was as frank
as possible, but Peter wondered how far he was getting to know the real
girl.

Tea was an unusual success for France. It was real tea, but then there
was reason for that, for Julie had insisted on going into the big
kitchen, to madame's amusement and monsieur's open admiration, and making