"PART I\n\n        Ah! is Thy love indeed\nA weed, albeit an amaranthine weed,\nSuffering no flowers except its own to mount?\n        Ah! must--\n        Designer infinite!--\nAh! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it?\n\nFRANCIS THOMPSON.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nLondon lay as if washed with water-colour that Sunday morning, light blue\nsky and pale dancing sunlight wooing the begrimed stones of Westminster\nlike a young girl with an old lover. The empty streets, clean-swept, were\nbathed in the light, and appeared to be transformed from the streets of\nweek-day life. Yet the half of Londoners lay late abed, perhaps because\nsix mornings a week of reality made them care little for one of magic.\n\nPeter, nevertheless, saw little of this beauty. He walked swiftly as\nalways, and he looked about him, but he noticed none of these things.\nTrue, a fluttering sheet of newspaper headlines impaled on the railings\nof St. Margaret's held him for a second, but that was because its message\nwas the one that rang continually in his head, and had nothing at all to\ndo with the beauty of things that he passed by.\n\nHe was a perfectly dressed young man, in a frock coat and silk hat of the\nLondon clergyman, and he was on his way to preach at St. John's at the\nmorning service. Walking always helped him to prepare his sermons, and\nthis sermon would ordinarily have struck him as one well worth preparing.\nThe pulpit of St. John's marked a rung up in the ladder for him. That\ngreat fashionable church of mid-Victorian faith and manners held a\ncongregation on Sunday mornings for which the Rector catered with care.\nIt said a good deal for Peter that he had been invited to preach. He\nought to have had his determined scheme plain before him, and a few\nsentences, carefully polished, at hand for the beginning and the end. He\ncould trust himself in the middle, and was perfectly conscious of that.\nHe frankly liked preaching, liked it not merely as an actor loves to sway\nhis audience, but liked it because he always knew what to say, and was\nreally keen that people should see his argument. And yet this morning,\nwhen he should have been prepared for the best he could do, he was not\nprepared at all.\n\nStrictly, that is not quite true, for he had a text, and the text\nabsolutely focused his thought. But it was too big for him. Like some at\nleast in England that day, he was conscious of staring down a lane of\ntragedy that appalled him. Fragments and sentences came and went in his\nhead. He groped for words, mentally, as he walked. Over and over again\nhe repeated his text. It amazed him by its simplicity; it horrified him\nby its depth.\n\nHilda was waiting at the pillar-box as she had said she would be, and\nlittle as she could guess it, she irritated him. He did not want her just\nthen. He could hardly tell why, except that, somehow, she ran counter to\nhis thoughts altogether that morning. She seemed, even in her excellent\nbrown costume that fitted her fine figure so well, out of place, and out\nof place for the first time.\n\nThey were not openly engaged, these two, but there was an understanding\nbetween them, and an understanding that her family was slowly\nrecognising. Mr. Lessing, at first, would never have accepted an\nengagement, for he had other ideas for his daughter of the big house in\nPark Lane. The rich city merchant, church-warden at St. John's, important\nin his party, and a person of distinction when at his club, would have\nbeen seriously annoyed that his daughter should consider a marriage with\na curate whose gifts had not yet made him an income. But he recognised\nthat the young man might go far. \"Young Graham?\" he would say, \"Yes, a\nclever young fellow, with quite remarkable gifts, sir. Bishop thinks a\nlot of him, I believe. Preaches extraordinarily well. The Rector said he\nwould ask him to St. John's one morning....\"\n\nPeter Graham's parish ran down to the river, and included slums in which\nsome of the ladies of St. John's (whose congregation had seen to it that\nin their immediate neighbourhood there were no such things) were\ninterested. So the two had met. She had found him admirable and likeable;\nhe found her highly respectable and seemingly unapproachable. From which\ncold elements much more may come than one might suppose.\n\nAt any rate, now, Mrs. Lessing said nothing when Hilda went to post a\nletter in London on Sunday morning before breakfast. She would have\nmildly remonstrated if the girl had gone to meet the young man. The which\nwas England once, and may, despite the Kaiser, be England yet once more.\n\n\"I was nearly going,\" she declared. \"You're a bit late.\"\n\n\"I know,\" he replied; \"I couldn't help it. The early service took longer\nthan usual. But I'm glad to see you before breakfast. Tell me, what does\nyour father think of it all?\"\n\nThe girl gave a little shrug of the shoulders, \"Oh, he says war is\nimpossible. The credit system makes it impossible. But if he really\nthinks so, I don't see why he should say it so often and so violently.\nOh, Peter, what do you think?\"\n\nThe young man unconsciously quickened his pace. \"I think it is certain,\"\nhe said. \"We must come in. I should say, more likely, the credit system\nmakes it impossible for us to keep out. I mean, half Europe can't go to\nwar and we sit still. Not in these days. And if it comes--Good Lord,\nHilda, do you know what it means? I can't see the end, only it looks to\nme like being a fearful smash.... Oh, we shall pull through, but nobody\nseems to see that our ordinary life will come down like a pack of cards.\nAnd what will the poor do? And can't you see the masses of poor souls\nthat will be thrown into the vortex like, like....\" He broke off. \"I\ncan't find words,\" he said, gesticulating nervously. \"It's colossal.\"\n\n\"Peter, you're going to preach about it: I can see you are. But do take\ncare what you say. I should hate father to be upset. He's so--oh, I don't\nknow!--_British_, I think. He hates to be thrown out, you know, and he\nwon't think all that possible.\"\n\nShe glanced up (the least little bit that she had to) anxiously. Graham\nsmiled. \"I know Mr. Lessing,\" he said. \"But, Hilda, he's _got_ to be\nmoved. Why, he may be in khaki yet!\"\n\n\"Oh, Peter, don't be silly. Why, father's fifty, and not exactly in\ntraining,\" she laughed. Then, seriously: \"But for goodness' sake don't\nsay such things--for my sake, anyway.\"\n\nPeter regarded her gravely, and held open the gate. \"I'll remember,\" he\nsaid, \"but more unlikely things may happen than that.\"\n\nThey went up the path together, and Hilda slipped a key into the door. As\nit opened, a thought seemed to strike her for the first time. \"What will\n_you_ do?\" she demanded suddenly.\n\nMrs. Lessing was just going into the dining-room, and Peter had no\nneed to reply. \"Good-morning, Mr. Graham,\" she said, coming forward\ngraciously. \"I wondered if Hilda would meet you: she wanted to post\na letter. Come in. You must be hungry after your walk.\"\n\nA manservant held the door open, and they all went in. That magic sun\nshone on the silver of the breakfast-table, and lit up the otherwise\nheavy room. Mrs. Lessing swung the cover of a silver dish and the eggs\nslipped in to boil. She touched a button on the table and sat down, just\nas Mr. Lessing came rather ponderously forward with a folded newspaper in\nhis hand.\n\n\"Morning, Graham,\" he said. \"Morning, Hilda. Been out, eh? Well, well,\nlovely morning out; makes one feel ten years younger. But what do you\nthink of all this, Graham?\" waving the paper as he spoke.\n\nPeter just caught the portentous headline--\n\n\"GERMANY DECLARES WAR ON RUSSIA,\"\n\nas he pulled up to the table, but he did not need to see it. There was\nreally no news: only that. \"It is certain, I think, sir,\" he said.\n\n\"Oh, certain, certain,\" said Lessing, seating himself. \"The telegrams say\nthey are over the frontier of Luxembourg and massing against France. Grey\ncan't stop 'em now, but the world won't stand it--can't stand it. There\ncan't be a long war. Probably it's all a big bluff again; they know in\nBerlin that business can't stand a war, or at any rate a long war. And we\nneedn't come in. In the City, yesterday, they said the Government could\ndo more by standing out. We're not pledged. Anderson told me Asquith said\nso distinctly. And, thank God, the Fleet's ready! It's madness, madness,\nand we must keep our heads. That's what I say, anyway.\"\n\nGraham cracked an egg mechanically. His sermon was coming back to him.\nHe saw a congregation of Lessings, and more clearly than ever the other\nthings. \"What about Belgium?\" he queried. \"Surely our honour is engaged\nthere?\"\n\nMr. Lessing pulled up his napkin, visibly perturbed. \"Yes, but what can\nwe do?\" he demanded. \"What is the good of flinging a handful of troops\noverseas, even if we can? It's incredible--English troops in Flanders in\nthis century. In my opinion--in my opinion, I say--we should do better to\nhold ourselves in readiness. Germany would never really dare antagonise\nus. They know what it involves. Why, there's hundreds of millions of\npounds at stake. Grey has only to be firm, and things must come right.\nMust--absolutely must.\"\n\n\"Annie said, this morning, that she heard everyone in the\nstreets last night say we must fight, father,\" put in Hilda.\n\n\"Pooh!\" exclaimed the city personage, touched now on the raw. \"What do\nthe fools know about it? I suppose the _Daily Mail_ will scream, but,\nthank God, this country has not quite gone to the dogs yet. The people,\nindeed! The mass of the country is solid for sense and business, and\ntrusts the Government. Of course, the Tory press will make the whole\nquestion a party lever if it can, but it can't. What! Are we going to be\npushed into war by a mob and a few journalists? Why, Labour even will be\ndead against it. Come, Graham, you ought to know something about that.\nMore in your line than mine--don't you think so?\"\n\n\"You really ought not to let the maids talk so,\" said Mrs. Lessing\ngently.\n\nPeter glanced at her with a curiously hopeless feeling, and looked slowly\nround the room until his eyes rested on Mr. Lessing's portrait over the\nmantelshelf, presented by the congregation of St. John's on some occasion\ntwo years before. From the portrait he turned to the gentleman, but it\nwas not necessary for him to speak. Mr. Lessing was saying something to\nthe man--probably ordering the car. He glanced across at Hilda, who had\nmade some reply to her mother and was toying with a spoon. He thought he\nhad never seen her look more handsome and.... He could not find the word:\nthought of \"solid,\" and then smiled at the thought. It did not fit in\nwith the sunlight on her hair.\n\n\"Well, well,\" said Mr. Lessing; \"we ought to make a move. It won't do for\neither of us to be late, Mr. Preacher.\"\n\nThe congregation of St. John's assembled on a Sunday morning as befitted\nits importance and dignity. Families arrived, or arrived by two or three\nrepresentatives, and proceeded with due solemnity to their private pews.\nNo one, of course, exchanged greetings on the way up the church, but\nevery lady became aware, not only of the other ladies present, but of\nwhat each wore. A sidesman, with an air of portentous gravity, as one\nwho, in opening doors, performed an office more on behalf of the Deity\nthan the worshippers, was usually at hand to usher the party in. Once\nthere, there was some stir of orderly bustle: kneelers were distributed\naccording to requirements, books sorted out after the solemn unlocking of\nthe little box that contained them, sticks and hats safely stowed away.\nThese duties performed, paterfamilias cast one penetrating glance round\nthe church, and leaned gracefully forward with a kind of circular motion.\nHaving suitably addressed Almighty God (it is to be supposed), he would\nlean back, adjust his trousers, possibly place an elbow on the pew-door,\nand contemplate with a fixed and determined gaze the distant altar.\n\nPeter, of course, wound in to solemn music with the procession of choir\nboys and men, and, accorded the honour of a beadle with a silver mace,\nsince he was to preach, was finally installed in a suitably cushioned\nseat within the altar-rails. He knelt to pray, but it was an effort to\nformulate anything. He was intensely conscious that morning that a\nmeaning hitherto unfelt and unguessed lay behind his world, and even\nbehind all this pomp and ceremony that he knew so well. Rising, of\ncourse, when the senior curate began to intone the opening sentence in\na manner which one felt was worthy even of St. John's, he allowed himself\nto study his surroundings as never before.\n\nThe church had, indeed, an air of great beauty in the morning sunlight.\nThe Renaissance galleries and woodwork, mellowed by time, were dusted\nby that soft warm glow, and the somewhat sparse congregation, in its\nmagnificently isolated groups, was humanised by it too. The stone of the\nchancel, flecked with colour, had a quiet dignity, and even the altar,\necclesiastically ludicrous, had a grace of its own. There was to be a\ncelebration after Matins. The historic gold plate was therefore arranged\non the retable with something of the effect of show pieces at Mappin and\nWebb's. Peter noticed three flagons, and between them two patens of great\nsize. A smaller pair for use stood on the credence-table. The gold\nchalice and paten, veiled, stood on the altar-table itself, and above\nthem, behind, rose the cross and two vases of hot-house lilies.\nSuggesting one of the great shields of beaten gold that King Solomon had\nmade for the Temple of Jerusalem, an alms-dish stood on edge, and leant\nagainst the retable to the right of the veiled chalice. Peter found\nhimself marvelling at its size, but was recalled to his position when\nit became necessary to kneel for the Confession.\n\nThe service followed its accustomed course, and throughout the whole of\nit Peter was conscious of his chaotic sermon. He glanced at his notes\noccasionally, and then put them resolutely away, well aware that they\nwould be all but useless to him. Either he would, at the last, be able to\nformulate the thoughts that raced through his head, or else he could do\nno more than occupy the pulpit for the conventional twenty minutes with a\nconventional sermon. At times he half thought he would follow this easier\ncourse, but then the great letters of the newspaper poster seemed to\nframe themselves before him, and he knew he could not. And so, at last,\nthere was the bowing beadle with the silver mace, and he must set out on\nthe little dignified procession to the great Jacobean pulpit with its\nvelvet cushion at the top.\n\nHilda's mind was a curious study during that sermon. At first, as her\nlover's rather close-cropped, dark-haired head appeared in sight, she had\nstudied him with an odd mixture of pride and apprehension. She held her\nhymn-book, but she did not need it, and she watched surreptitiously while\nhe opened the Bible, arranged some papers, and, in accordance with\ncustom, knelt to pray. She began to think half-thoughts of the days that\nmight be, when perhaps she would be the wife of the Rector of some St.\nJohn's, and later, possibly, of a Bishop. Peter had it in him to go far,\nshe knew. She half glanced round with a self-conscious feeling that\npeople might be guessing at her thoughts, and then back, wondering\nsuddenly if she really knew the man, or only the minister. And then there\ncame the rustle of shutting books and of people composing themselves to\nlisten, the few coughs, the vague suggestion of hassocks and cushions\nbeing made comfortable. And then, in a moment, almost with the giving out\nof the text, the sudden stillness and that tense sensation which told\nthat the young orator had gripped his congregation.\n\nThereafter she hardly heard him, as it were, and she certainly lost the\nfeeling of ownership that had been hers before. As he leaned over the\npulpit, and the words rang out almost harshly from their intensity, she\nbegan to see, as the rest of the congregation began to see, the images\nthat the preacher conjured up before her. A sense of coming disaster\nriveted her--the feeling that she was already watching the end of\nan age.\n\n\"Jesus had compassion on the multitude\"--that had been the short and\nsimple text. Simple words, the preacher had said, but how when one\nrealised Who had had compassion, and on what? Almighty God Himself, with\nHis incarnate Mind set on the working out of immense and agelong plans,\nhad, as it were, paused for a moment to have compassion on hungry women\nand crying babies and folk whose petty confused affairs could have seemed\nof no consequence to anyone in the drama of the world. And then, with a\nfew terse sentences, the preacher swung from that instance to the world\ndrama of to-day. Did they realise, he asked, that peaceful bright Sunday\nmorning, that millions of simple men were at that moment being hurled at\neach other to maim and kill? At the bidding of powers that even they\ncould hardly visualise, at the behest of world politics that not one in\na thousand would understand and scarcely any justify, houses were being\nbroken up, women were weeping, and children playing in the sun before\ncottage doors were even now being left fatherless. It was incredible,\ncolossal, unimaginable, but as one tried to picture it, Hell had opened\nher mouth and Death gone forth to slay. It was terrible enough that\nbattlefields of stupendous size should soon be littered with the dying\nand the dead, but the aftermath of such a war as this would be still more\nterrible. No one could say how near it would come to them all. No one\ncould tell what revolution in morals and social order such a war as this\nmight not bring. That day God Himself looked down on the multitude as\nsheep having no shepherd, abandoned to be butchered by the wolves, and\nHis heart beat with a divine compassion for the infinite sorrows of the\nworld.\n\nThere was little more to it. An exhortation to go home to fear and pray\nand set the house in order against the Day of Wrath, and that was all.\n\"My brethren,\" said the young man--and the intensity of his thought lent\na certain unusual solemnity to the conventional title--\"no one can tell\nhow the events of this week may affect us. Our feet may even now be going\ndown into the Valley of the Shadow of temptation, of conflict, of death,\nand even now there may be preparing for us a chalice such as we shall\nfear to drink. Let us pray that in that hour the compassion of Jesus may\nbe real to us, and we ourselves find a sure place in that sorrowful\nHeart.\"\n\nAnd he was gone from the pulpit without another word. It would have been\nalmost ridiculous if one had noted that the surprised beadle had had no\n\"And now to God the Father ...\" in which to reach the pulpit, and had\nbeen forced to meet his victim hurrying halfway up the chancel; but\nperhaps no one but that dignitary, whom the fall of thrones would not\nshake, had noticed it. The congregation paid the preacher the great\ncompliment of sitting on in absolute silence for a minute or two. For a\nmoment it still stared reality in the face. And then Mr. Lessing shifted\nin his pew and coughed, and the Rector rose, pompously as usual, to\nannounce the hymn, and Hilda became conscious of unaccustomed tears in\nher eyes.\n\nThe senior curate solemnly uncovered and removed the chalice. Taking\nbread and wine, he deposited the sacred vessels at the north end of the\naltar, returned to the centre, unfolded the corporal, received the alms,\nand as solemnly set the great gold dish on the corporal itself, after the\nunmeaning custom of the church. And then came the long prayer and the\nsolemn procession to the vestry, while a dozen or two stayed with the\nsenior curate for the Communion.\n\nGraham found himself in the little inner vestry, with its green-cloth\ntable and massive inkstand and registers, and began to unvest\nmechanically. He got his coat out of the beautiful carved wardrobe, and\nwas folding up his hood and surplice, when the Rector laid a patronising\nhand on his shoulder. \"A good sermon, Graham,\" he said--\"a good sermon,\nif a little emotional. It was a pity you forgot the doxology. But it is\na great occasion, I fear a greater occasion than we know, and you rose to\nit very well. Last night I had half a mind to 'phone you not to come, and\nto preach myself, but I am glad now I did not. I am sure we are very\ngrateful. Eh, Sir Robert?\"\n\nSir Robert Doyle, the other warden, was making neat piles of sovereigns\non the green cloth, while Mr. Lessing counted the silver as to the manner\nborn. He was a pillar of the church, too, was Sir Robert, but a soldier\nand a straight speaker. He turned genially to the young man.\n\n\"From the shoulder, Rector,\" he said. \"Perhaps it will make a few of us\nsit up a little. Coming down to church I met Arnold of the War Office,\nand he said war was certain. Of course it is. Germany has been playing up\nfor it for years, and we fools have been blind and mad. But it'll come\nnow. Thank God, I can still do a bit, and maybe we shall meet out there\nyet--eh, Mr. Graham?\"\n\nSomehow or another that aspect of the question had not struck Peter\nforcibly till now. He had been so occupied with visualising the march\nof world events that he had hardly thought of himself as one of the\nmultitude. But now the question struck home. What would he do? He was\nat a loss for the moment.\n\nThe Rector saved him, however. \"Well, well, of course, Sir Robert, apart\nfrom the chaplains, the place of the clergy will be almost certainly at\nhome. Hospital visiting, and so on, will take a lot of time. I believe\nthe Chaplain-General's Department is fully staffed, but doubtless, if\nthere is any demand, the clergy will respond. It is, of course, against\nCanon Law for them to fight, though doubtless our young friend would like\nto do his share in that if he could. You were in the O.T.C. at Oxford,\nweren't you, Graham?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Graham shortly.\n\n\"The French priests are mobilising with the nation,\" said Sir Robert.\n\n\"Ah, yes, naturally,\" replied the Rector; \"that is one result of the\nrecent anti-clerical legislation. Thank God, this country has been spared\nthat, and in any case we shall never have conscription. Probably the Army\nwill have to be enlarged--half a million will be required at least, I\nshould think. That will mean more chaplains, but I should suppose the\nBishops will select--oh, yes, surely their lordships will select. It\nwould be a pity for you to go, Graham; it's rough work with the Tommies,\nand your gifts are wanted at home. The Vicar of St. Thomas's speaks very\nhighly of your gifts as an organiser, and doubtless some sphere will be\nopened up for you. Well, well, these are stirring times. Good-morning,\nMr. Graham.\"\n\nHe held out his hand to the young man. Mr. Lessing, carefully smoothing\nhis silk hat, looked up. \"Come in to luncheon with us, will you, Graham?\"\nhe said.\n\nPeter assented, and shook hands all round. Sir Robert and he moved out\ntogether, and the baronet caught his eye in the porch. \"This'll jog him\nup a bit, I'm thinking,\" he said to himself. \"There's stuff in that chap,\nbut he's got to feel his legs.\"\n\nOutside the summer sun was now powerful, and the streets were dusty and\nmore busy. The crowd had thinned at the church door, but Hilda and Mrs.\nLessing were waiting for the car.\n\n\"Don't let's drive,\" said Hilda as they came up; \"I'd much sooner walk\nhome to-day.\"\n\nHer father smiled paternally. \"Bit cramped after church, eh?\" he said.\n\"Well, what do you say, dear?\" he asked his wife.\n\n\"I think I shall drive,\" Mrs. Lessing replied; \"but if Mr. Graham is\ncoming to luncheon, perhaps he will walk round with Hilda. Will you, Mr.\nGraham?\"\n\n\"With pleasure,\" said Peter. \"I agree with Miss Lessing, and the walk\nwill be jolly. We'll go through the park. It's less than half an hour,\nisn't it?\"\n\nIt was arranged at that, and the elders drove off. Peter raised his hat\nto Sir Robert, who turned up the street, and together he and Hilda\ncrossed over the wide thoroughfare and started down for the park.\n\nThere was silence for a little, and it was Peter who broke it.\n\n\"Just before breakfast,\" he said, \"you asked me what I should do, and I\nhad no chance to reply. Well, they were talking of it in the vestry just\nnow, and I've made up my mind. I shall write to-night to the Bishop and\nask for a chaplaincy.\"\n\nThey walked on a hundred yards or so in silence again. Then Hilda broke\nit. \"Peter,\" she began, and stopped. He glanced at her quickly, and saw\nin a minute that the one word had spoken truly to him.\n\n\"Oh, Hilda,\" he said, \"do you really care all that? You can't possibly!\nOh, if we were not here, and I could tell you all I feel! But, dear, I\nlove you; I know now that I have loved you for months, and it is just\nbecause I love you that I must go.\"\n\n\"Peter,\" began Hilda again, and again stopped. Then she took a grip of\nherself, and spoke out bravely. \"Oh, Peter,\" she said, \"you've guessed\nright. I never meant you to--at least, not yet, but it is terrible to\nthink of you going out there. I suppose I ought to be glad and proud, and\nin a way I am, but you don't seem the right person for it. It's wasting\nyou. And I don't know what I shall do without you. You've become the\ncentre of my life. I count on seeing you, and on working with you. If\nyou go, you, you may ... Oh, I can't say it! I ought not to say all this.\nBut...\" She broke off abruptly.\n\nGraham glanced round him. They were in the park now, and no one in\nparticular was about in the quiet of the sidewalk. He put his hand out,\nand drew her gently to a seat. Then, leaning forward and poking at the\nground with his stick, he began. \"Hilda, darling,\" he said, \"it's awful\nto have to speak to you just now and just like this, but I must. First,\nabout ourselves. I love you with all my heart, only that's so little to\nsay; I love you so much that you fill my life. And I have planned my life\nwith you. I hardly knew it, but I had. I thought I should just go on and\nget a living and marry you--perhaps, if you would (I can hardly speak of\nit now I know you would)--and--and--oh, I don't know--make a name in the\nChurch, I suppose. Well, and I hope we shall one day, but now this has\ncome along. I really feel all I said this morning, awfully. I shall go\nout--I must. The men must be helped; one can't sit still and imagine them\ndying, wounded, tempted, and without a priest. It's a supreme chance. We\nshall be fighting for honour and truth, and the Church must be there to\nbear her witness and speak her message. There will be no end to do. And\nit is a chance of a lifetime to get into touch with the men, and\nunderstand them. You do see that, don't you? And, besides--forgive me,\nbut I must put it so--if _He_ had compassion on the multitude, ought we\nnot to have too? _He_ showed it by death; ought we to fear even that\ntoo?\"\n\nThe girl stole out a hand, and his gripped it hard. Then she remembered\nthe conventions and pulled it away, and sat a little more upright. She\nwas extraordinarily conscious of herself, and she felt as if she had two\nselves that day. One was Hilda Lessing, a girl she knew quite well, a\nwell-trained person who understood life, and the business of society and\nof getting married, quite correctly; and the other was somebody she did\nnot know at all, that could not reason, and who felt naked and ashamed.\nIt was inexplicable, but it was so. That second self was listening to\nheroics and even talking them, and surely heroics were a little out of\ndate.\n\nShe looked across a wide green space, and saw, through the distant trees,\nthe procession of the church parade. She felt as if she ought to be\nthere, and half unconsciously glanced at her dress. A couple of terriers\nran scurrying across the grass, and a seat-ticket man came round the\ncorner. Behind them a taxi hooted, and some sparrows broke out into a\nnoisy chatter in a bush. And here was Peter talking of death, and the\nCross--and out of church, too.\n\nShe gave a little shudder, and glanced at a wrist-watch. \"Peter,\" she\nsaid, \"we must go. Dear, for my sake, do think it over. Wait a little,\nand see what happens. I quite understand your point of view, but you must\nthink of others--even your Vicar, my parents, and of me. And Peter, shall\nwe say anything about our--our love? What do you think?\"\n\nPeter Graham looked at her steadily, and as she spoke he, too, felt the\ncontrast between his thoughts and ordinary life. The London curate was\nhimself again. He got up. \"Well, darling,\" he said, \"just as you like,\nbut perhaps not--at any rate until I know what I have to do. I'll think\nthat over. Only, we shan't change, shall we, whatever happens? You _do_\nlove me, don't you? And I do love you.\"\n\nHilda met his gaze frankly and blushed a little. She held out a hand to\nbe helped up. \"My dear boy,\" she said.\n\nAfter luncheon Peter smoked a cigar in the study with Mr. Lessing before\ndeparture. Every detail of that hour impressed itself upon him as had the\nevents of the day, for his mind was strung up to see the inner meaning of\nthings clearly.\n\nThey began with the usual ritual of the selection of chairs and cigars,\nand Mr. Lessing had a glass of port with his coffee, because, as he\nexplained, his nerves were all on edge. Comfortably stretched out in an\narmchair, blowing smoke thoughtfully towards the empty grate, his fat\nface and body did not seem capable of nerves, still less to be suffering\nfrom them, but then one can never tell from appearances. At any rate he\nchose his words with care, and Graham, opposite but sitting rather\nupright, could not but sense his meaning.\n\n\"Well, well, well,\" he said, \"to think we should come to this! A European\nwar in this century, and we in it! Not that I'll believe it till I hear\nit officially. While there's life there's hope, eh, Graham?\"\n\nPeter nodded, for he did not know what to say.\n\n\"The question is,\" went on the other, \"that if we are carried into war,\nwhat is the best policy? Some fools will lose their heads, of course, and\nchuck everything to run into it. But I've no use for fools, Graham.\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" said Peter.\n\n\"No use for fools,\" repeated Mr. Lessing. \"I shall carry on with business\nas usual, and I hope other people will carry on with theirs. There are\nplenty of men who can fight, and who ought to, without disorganising\neverything. Hilda would see that too--she's such a sensible girl. Look at\nthat Boer affair, and all that foolery about the C.I.V. Why, I met a\nSouth African at the club the other day who said we'd have done ten times\nas well without 'em. You must have trained men these days, and, after\nall, it's the men behind the armies that win the war. Men like you and I,\nGraham, each doing his ordinary job without excitement. That's the type\nthat's made old England. You ought to preach about it, Graham. Come to\nthink, it fits in with what you said this morning, and a good sermon too,\nyoung man. Every man's got to put his house in order and carry on. You\nmeant that, didn't you?\"\n\n\"Something like that,\" said Peter; \"but as far as the clergy are\nconcerned, I still think the Bishops ought to pick their men.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, of course,\" said Mr. Lessing, stretching himself a bit. \"But I\ndon't think the clergy could be much use over there. As the Canon said,\nthere will be plenty to do at home. In any case it would be no use\nrushing the Bishops. Let them see what's needed, and then let them choose\ntheir men, eh? A man like London's sure to be in the know. Good thing\nhe's your Bishop, Graham: you can leave it to him easily?\"\n\n\"I should think so, sir,\" said Peter forlornly.\n\n\"Oh, well, glad to hear you say it, I'm sure, Graham, and so will Mrs.\nLessing be, and Hilda. We're old-fashioned folk, you know.... Well, well,\nand I suppose I oughtn't to keep you. I'll come with you to the door, my\nboy.\"\n\nHe walked ahead of the young man into the hall, and handed him his hat\nhimself. On the steps they shook hands to the fire of small sentences.\n\"Drop in some evening, won't you? Don't know if I really congratulated\nyou on the sermon; you spoke extraordinarily well, Graham. You've a great\ngift. After all, this war will give you a bit of a chance, eh? We must\nhear you again in St. John's.... Good-afternoon.\"\n\n\"Good-afternoon, Mr. Lessing,\" said Graham, \"and thank you for all you've\nsaid.\"\n\nIn the street he walked slowly, and he thought of all Mr. Lessing had not\nsaid as well as all he had. After all, he had spoken sound sense, and\nthere was Hilda. He couldn't lose Hilda, and if the old man turned out\nobstinate--well, it would be all but impossible to get her. Probably\nthings were not as bad as he had imagined. Very likely it would all be\nover by Christmas. If so, it was not much use throwing everything up.\nPerhaps he could word the letter to the Bishop a little differently. He\nturned over phrases all the way home, and got them fairly pat. But it was\na busy evening, and he did not write that night.\n\nMonday always began as a full day, what with staff meeting and so on, and\nits being Bank Holiday did not make much difference to them. But in the\nafternoon he was free to read carefully the Sunday papers, and was\nappalled with the swiftness of the approach of the universal cataclysm.\nAfter Evensong and supper, then, he got out paper and pen and wrote,\nthough it took much longer than he thought it would. In the end he begged\nthe Bishop to remember him if it was really necessary to find more\nchaplains, and expressed his readiness to serve the Church and the\ncountry when he was wanted. When it was written, he sat long over the\nclosed envelope and smoked a couple of pipes. He wondered if men were\nkilling each other, even now, just over the water. He pictured a battle\nscene, drawing from imagination and what he remembered of field-days at\nAldershot. He shuddered a little as he conceived himself crawling through\nheather to reach a man in the front line who had been hit, while the\nenemies' guns on the crest opposite were firing as he had seen them fire\nin play. He tried to imagine what it would be like to be hit.\n\nThen he got up and stretched himself. He looked round curiously at the\nbookcase, the Oxford group or two, the hockey cap that hung on the edge\nof one. He turned to the mantelpiece and glanced over the photos.\nProbably Bob Scarlett would be out at once; he was in some Irish\nregiment or other. Old Howson was in India; he wouldn't hear or see much.\nJimmy--what would Jimmy do, now? He picked up the photograph and looked\nat it--the clean-shaven, thoughtful, good-looking face of the best fellow\nin the world, who had got his fellowship almost at once after his\nbrilliant degree, and was just now, he reflected, on holiday in the\nSouth of France. Jimmy, the idealist, what would Jimmy do? He reached\nfor a hat and made for the door. He would post his letter that night\nunder the stars.\n\nOnce outside, he walked on farther down Westminster way. At the Bridge\nhe leaned for a while and watched the sullen, tireless river, and then\nturned to walk up past the House. It was a clear, still night, and the\nstreet was fairly empty. Big Ben boomed eleven, and as he crossed in\nfront of the gates to reach St. Margaret's he wondered what was doing in\nthere. He had the vaguest notion where people like the Prime Minister and\nSir Edward Grey would be that night. He thought possibly with the King,\nor in Downing Street. And then he heard his name being called, and turned\nto see Sir Robert Doyle coming towards him.\n\nThe other's face arrested him. \"Is there any news, Sir Robert?\" he asked.\n\nSir Robert glanced up in his turn at the great shining dial above them.\n\"Our ultimatum has gone or is just going to Germany, and in twenty-four\nhours we shall be at war,\" he said tersely. \"I'm just going home; I've\nbeen promised a job.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nAt 7.10 on a foggy February morning Victoria Station looked a place of\nmystery within which a mighty work was going forward. Electric lights\nstill shone in the gloom, and whereas innumerable units of life ran this\nway and that like ants disturbed, an equal number stood about apparently\nindifferent and unperturbed. Tommies who had found a place against a wall\nor seat deposited rifle and pack close by, lit a pipe, and let the world\ngo by, content that when the officers' leave train had gone someone, or\nsome Providence, would round them up as well. But, for the rest, porters,\nmale and female, rushed up with baggage; trunks were pushed through the\ncrowd with the usual objurgations; subalterns, mostly loud and merry,\ngreeted each other or the officials, or, more subdued, moved purposefully\nthrough the crowd with their women-folk, intent on finding a quieter\nplace farther up the platforms.\n\nThere was no mistaking the leave platform or the time of the train, for a\ngreat notice drew one's attention to it. Once there, the Army took a man\nin hand. Peter was entirely new to the process, but he speedily\ndiscovered that his fear of not knowing what to do or where to go, which\nhad induced him (among other reasons) to say good-bye at home and come\nalone to the station, was unfounded. Red-caps passed him on respectfully\nbut purposefully to officials, who looked at this paper and that, and\nfinally sent him up to an officer who sat at a little table with papers\nbefore him to write down the name, rank, unit, and destination of each\nindividual destined that very morning to leave for the Army in France.\n\nPeter at last, then, was free to walk up the platform, and seek the rest\nof his luggage that had come on from the hotel with the porter. He was\nfree, that is, if one disregarded the kit hung about his person, or\nwhich, despite King's Regulations, he carried in his hands. But free or\nnot, he could not find his luggage. At 7.30 it struck him that at least\nhe had better find his seat. He therefore entered a corridor and began\npilgrimage. It was seemingly hopeless. The seats were filled with coats\nor sticks or papers; every type of officer was engaged in bestowing\nhimself and his goods; and the general atmosphere struck him as being\nprecisely that which one experiences as a fresher when one first enters\nhall for dinner at the 'Varsity. The comparison was very close.\nFirst-year men--that is to say, junior officers returning from their\nfirst leave--were the most encumbered, self-possessed, and asserting;\nthose of the second year, so to say, usually got a corner-seat and looked\nout of window; while here and there a senior officer, or a subaltern with\na senior's face, selected a place, arranged his few possessions, and got\nout a paper, not in the Oxford manner, as if he owned the place, but in\nthe Cambridge, as if he didn't care a damn who did.\n\nPeter made a horrible hash of it. He tried to find a seat with all his\ngoods in his hands, not realising that they might have been deposited\nanywhere in the train, and found when it had started, since, owing to a\nparticular dispensation of the high gods, everything that passed the\nbarrier for France got there. He made a dive for one place and sat in it,\nnever noting a thin stick in the corner, and he cleared out with enormous\napologies when a perfectly groomed Major with an exceedingly pleasant\nmanner mentioned that it was his seat, and carefully put the stick\nelsewhere as soon as Peter had gone. Finally, at the end of a carriage,\nhe descried a small door half open, and inside what looked like an empty\nseat. He pulled it open, and discovered a small, select compartment with\na centre table and three men about it, all making themselves very\ncomfortable.\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" said Peter, \"but is there a place vacant for one?\"\n\nThe three eyed him stonily, and he knew instinctively that he was again a\nfresher calling on the second year. One, a Captain, raised his head to\nlook at him better. He was a man of light hair and blue, alert eyes,\nwearing a cap that, while not looking dissipated, somehow conveyed the\nimpression that its owner knew all about things--a cap, too, that carried\nthe Springbok device. The lean face, with its humorous mouth, regarded\nPeter and took him all in: his vast expanse of collar, the wide black\nedging to his shoulder-straps, his brand-new badges, his black buttons\nand stars. Then he lied remorselessly:\n\n\"Sorry, padre; we're full up.\"\n\nPeter backed out and forgot to close the door, for at that moment a\nshrill whistle was excruciatingly blown. He found himself in the very cab\nof the Pullman with the glass door before him, through which could be\nseen a sudden bustle. Subalterns hastened forward from the more or less\nsecluded spots that they had found, with a vision of skirts and hats\nbehind them; an inspector passed aggressively along; and--thanks to those\nhigh gods--Peter observed the hurrying hotel porter at that moment. In\nsixty seconds the door had been jerked open; a gladstone, a suit-case,\nand a kit-bag shot at him; largesse had changed hands; the door had shut\nagain; the train had groaned and started; and Peter was off to France.\n\nIt was with mixed feelings that he groped for his luggage. He was\nconscious of wanting a seat and a breakfast; he was also conscious of\nwanting to look at the station he was leaving, which he dimly felt he\nmight never see again; and he was, above all, conscious that he looked a\nfool and would like not to. In such a turmoil he lugged at the gladstone\nand got it into a corner, and then turned to the window in the cleared\nspace with a determination. In turning he caught the Captain's face stuck\nround the little door. It was withdrawn at once, but came out again, and\nhe heard for the second time the unfamiliar title:\n\n\"Say, padre; come in here. There's room after all.\"\n\nPeter felt cheered. He staggered to the door, and found the others busy\nmaking room. A subaltern of the A.S.C. gripped his small attaché case and\nswung it up on to the rack. The South African pulled a British warm off\nthe vacant seat and reached out for the suit-case. And the third man, with\nthe rank of a Major and the badge of a bursting bomb, struck a match and\npaused as he lit a cigarette to jerk out:\n\n\"Damned full train! We ought to have missed it, Donovan.\"\n\n\"It's a good stunt that, if too many blighters don't try it on,\" observed\nthe subaltern, reaching for Peter's warm. \"But they did my last leave,\nand I got the devil of a choking off from the brass-hat in charge. It's\nthe Staff train, and they only take Prime Ministers, journalists, and\ntrade-union officials in addition. How's that, padre?\"\n\n\"Thanks,\" said Peter, subsiding. \"It's jolly good of you to take me in. I\nthought I'd got to stand from here to Folkestone.\"\n\nH.P. Jenks, Second-Lieutenant A.S.C., regarded him seriously. \"It\ncouldn't be done, padre,\" he said, \"not at this hour of the morning. I\nleft Ealing about midnight more or less, got sandwiched in the Metro with\na Brigadier-General and his blooming wife and daughters, and had to wait\nGod knows how long for the R.T.O. If I couldn't get a seat and a break\nafter that, I'd be a casualty, sure thing.\"\n\n\"It's your own fault for going home last night,\" observed the Major\njudiciously. (Peter noticed that he was little older than Jenks on\ninspection.) \"Gad, Donovan, you should have been with us at the Adelphi!\nIt was some do, I can tell you. And afterwards...\"\n\n\"Shut up, Major!\" cut in Jenks. \"Remember the padre.\"\n\n\"Oh, he's broad-minded I know, aren't you, padre? By the way, did you\never meet old Drennan who was up near Poperinghe with the Canadians? He\nwas a sport, I can tell you. Mind you, a real good chap at his job, but a\nwhite man. Pluck! By jove! I don't think that chap had nerves. I saw him\none day when they were dropping heavy stuff on the station, and he was\ngetting some casualties out of a Red Cross train. A shell burst just down\nthe embankment, and his two orderlies ducked for it under the carriage,\nbut old Drennan never turned a hair. 'Better have a fag,' he said to the\nScottie he was helping. 'It's no use letting Fritz put one off one's\nsmoke.'\"\n\nPeter said he had not met him, but could not think of anything else to\nsay at the moment, except that he was just going out for the first time.\n\n\"You don't say?\" said Donovan dryly.\n\n\"Wish I was!\" ejaculated Jenks.\n\n\"Good chap,\" replied the Major. \"Pity more of your sort don't come over.\nWhen I was up at Loos, September last year, we didn't see a padre in\nthree months. Then they put on a little chap--forget his name--who used\nto bike over when we were in rest billets. But he wasn't much use.\"\n\n\"I was in hospital seven weeks and never saw one,\" said Jenks.\n\n\"Good heavens!\" said Graham. \"But I've been trying to get out for\nall these years, and I was always told that every billet was taken\nand that there were hundreds on the waiting list. Last December the\nChaplain-General himself showed me a list of over two hundred names.\"\n\n\"Don't know where they get to, then, do you, Bevan?\" asked Jenks.\n\n\"No,\" said the Major, \"unless they keep 'em at the base.\"\n\n\"Plenty down at Rouen, anyway,\" said Donovan. \"A sporting little blighter\nI met at the Brasserie Opera told me he hadn't anything to do, anyway.\"\n\n\"I shall be a padre in the next war,\" said Jenks, stretching out his\nlegs. \"A parade on Sunday, and you're finished for the week. No orderly\ndog, no night work, and plenty of time for your meals. Padres can always\nget leave too, and they always come and go by Paris.\"\n\nDonovan laughed, and glanced sideways at Peter. \"Stow it, Jenks,\" he\nsaid. \"Where you for, padre?\" he asked.\n\n\"I've got to report at Rouen,\" said Peter. \"I was wondering if you were\nthere.\"\n\n\"No such luck now,\" returned the other. \"But it's a jolly place. Jenko's\nthere. Get him to take you out to Duclair. You can get roast duck at a\npub there that melts in your mouth. And what's that little hotel near the\nstatue of Joan of Arc, Jenks, where they still have decent wine?\"\n\nPeter was not to learn yet awhile, for at that moment the little door\nopened and a waiter looked in. \"Breakfast, gentlemen?\" he asked.\n\n\"Oh, no,\" said Jenks. \"Waiter, I always bring some rations with me; I'll\njust take a cup of coffee.\"\n\nThe man grinned. \"Right-o, sir,\" he said. \"Porridge, gentlemen?\"\n\nHe disappeared, leaving the door open and, Donovan opening a newspaper,\nGraham stared out of window to wait. From the far corners came scraps of\nconversation, from which he gathered that Jenks and the Major were going\nover the doings of the night before. He caught a word or two, and stared\nthe harder out of window.\n\nOutside the English country was rushing by. Little villas, with\nback-gardens running down to the rail, would give way for a mile or two\nto fields, and then start afresh. The fog was thin there, and England\nlooked extraordinarily homely and pleasant. It was the known; he was\nconscious of rushing at fifty miles an hour into the unknown. He turned\nover the scrappy conversation of the last few minutes, and found it\nsavoured of the unknown. It was curious the difference uniform made. He\nfelt that these men were treating him more like one of themselves than\nmen in a railway-carriage had ever treated him before; that somehow even\nhis badges made him welcome; and yet that, nevertheless, it was not he,\nPeter Graham, that they welcomed, or at least not his type. He wondered\nif padres in France were different from priests in England. He turned\nover the unknown Drennan in his mind. Was it because he was a good priest\nthat the men liked him, or because they had discovered the man in the\nparson?\n\nThe waiter brought in the breakfast--porridge, fish, toast, and the\nrest--and they fell to, a running fire of comments going on all the time.\nDonovan had had Japanese marmalade somewhere, and thought it better than\nthis. The Major wouldn't touch the beastly margarine, but Jenks thought\nit quite as good as butter if taken with marmalade, and put it on nearly\nas thickly as his toast. Peter expanded in the air of camaraderie, and\nwhen he leaned back with a cigarette, tunic unbuttoned and cap tossed up\non the rack, he felt as if he had been in the Army for years. He\nreflected how curious that was. The last two or three years or so of Boy\nScouts and hospitals and extra prayer-meetings, attended by the people\nwho attended everything else, seemed to have faded away. There was hardly\na gap between that first war evening which he remembered so clearly and\nthis. It was a common experience enough, and probably due to the fact\nthat, whereas everything else had made little impression, he had lived\nfor this moment and been extraordinarily impressed by that Sunday. But he\nrealised, also, that it was due as much to his present companions. They\nhad, seemingly, accepted him as he had never been accepted before. They\nasked practically no questions. So far as he could see, he made no\ndifference to them. He felt as if he were at last part of a great\nbrotherhood, in which, chiefly, one worried about nothing more important\nthan Japanese marmalade and margarine.\n\n\"We're almost there, boys,\" said Bevan, peering out of window.\n\n\"Curse!\" ejaculated Jenks. \"I hate getting my traps together in a train,\nand I loathe the mob on the boat.\"\n\n\"I don't see why you should,\" said Donovan. \"I'm blest if I bother about\nanything. The R.T.O. and the red-caps do everything, and you needn't even\nworry about getting a Pullman ticket this way over. Hope it's not rough,\nthough.\" He let a window down and leaned out. \"Looks all right,\" he\nadded.\n\nPeter got up with the rest and began to hang things about him. His\nstaringly new Sam Browne irritated him, but he forgot it as the train\nswung round the curve to the landing-stage.\n\n\"Get a porter and a truck, Donovan,\" said the Major, who was farthest\nfrom the door.\n\nThey got out nonchalantly, and Peter lit a cigarette, while the others\nthrew remarks at the man as to luggage. Then they all trooped off\ntogether in a crowd that consisted of every variety of rank and regiment\nand section of the British Empire, plus some Waacs and nurses.\n\n_The Pride of Folkestone_ lay alongside, and when they got there she\nseemed already full. The four of them got jammed at the gangway and\nshoved on board, handing in and receiving papers from the official at the\nhead as they passed him. Donovan was in front, and as he stepped on deck\nhe swung his kit-bag back to Peter, crying:\n\n\"Lay hold of that, padre, and edge across the deck. Get up ahead of the\nfunnel that side. I'll get chairs. Jenko, you rotter, get belts, and drop\neyeing the girl!\"\n\n\"Jolly nice bit of fluff,\" said Jenks meditatively, staring fixedly\nacross the deck.\n\n\"Where?\" queried the Major, fumbling for his eyeglass.\n\n\"Get on there, please, gentlemen,\" called a ship's official.\n\n\"Damn it! mind my leg!\"\n\n\"Cheerio, old son, here we are again!\"\n\n\"I say, Tommy, did you get to the Alhambra last night, after all? What?\nWell, I couldn't see you, anyhow.\"\n\nTo which accompaniment, Peter pushed his way across the deck. \"Sorry,\npadre,\" said a V.A.D. who blocked the way, bending herself back to let\nhim pass, and smiling. \"Catch hold,\" called out Donovan, swinging a\ncouple of chairs at him. \"No, sir, it's not my chair\"--to a Colonel\nwho was grabbing at one already set out against the rail.\n\nThe Colonel collected it and disappeared, Jenks appearing a moment later,\nred-faced, through the crush. \"You blamed fool,\" he whispered, \"it's that\ngirl's. I saw her put one here and edged up on it, only some fool got in\nmy way. Still (hopefully), perhaps she'll come back.\"\n\nBetween them they got four chairs into a line and sat down, all, that is,\nsave Jenks, who stood up, in a bland and genial way, as if to survey the\ncrowd impartially. How impartially soon appeared. \"Damn!\" he exploded.\n\"She's met some other females, weird and woolly things, and she's sitting\ndown there. No, by Jove! she's looking this way.\"\n\nHe made a half-start forward, and the Major kicked his shins. \"Blast!\" he\nexploded; \"why did you do that, you fool?\"\n\n\"Don't be an infant, Jenko, sit down. You can't start a flirtation across\nthe blooming deck. Here, padre, can't you keep him in order?\"\n\nPeter half raised himself from his chair at this, and glanced the way the\nother was looking. Through the crush he saw, clearly enough for a minute,\na girl of medium height in a nurse's uniform, sideways on to him. The\nnext second she half-turned, obviously smiling some remark to her\nneighbour, and he caught sight of clear brown eyes and a little fringe\nof dark hair on the forehead of an almost childish face. The eyes met\nhis. And then a sailor blundered across his field of vision.\n\n\"Topping, isn't she?\" demanded Jenks, who had apparently been pulled down\ninto his chair in the interval.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know,\" said Graham, and added deliberately: \"Rather\nordinary, I thought.\"\n\nJenks stared at him. \"Good Lord, padre,\" he said, \"where are your eyes?\"\n\nPeter heard a little chuckle behind, and glanced round to see Donovan\nstaring at him with amusement written all across his face. \"You'll do,\npadre,\" he said, taking a pipe from his pocket and beginning to fill it.\nPeter smiled and leant back. Probably for the first time in five years he\nforgot for a moment what sort of a collar it was around his neck.\n\nSitting there, he began to enjoy himself. The sea glittered in the\nsun and the Lees stretched out opposite him across the shining gulf.\nSea-birds dipped and screamed. On his left, Major Bevan was talking to\na flying man, and Peter glanced up with him to see an aeroplane that\ncame humming high up above the trees on the cliff and flew out to sea.\n\n\"Damned fine type!\" said the boy, whose tunic, for all his youth, sported\nwings. \"Fritz can't touch it yet. Of course, he'll copy it soon enough,\nor go one better, but just at present I think it's the best out. Wish\nwe'd got some in our circus. We've nothing but ...\" and he trailed off\ninto technicalities.\n\nPeter found himself studying Donovan, who lay back beyond Jenks turning\nthe pages of an illustrated magazine and smoking. The eyes interested\nhim; they looked extraordinarily clear, but as if their owner kept hidden\nbehind them a vast number of secrets as old as the universe. The face was\nlined--good-looking, he thought, but the face of a man who was no novice\nin the school of life. Peter felt he liked the Captain instinctively. He\ncarried breeding stamped on him, far more than, say, the Major with the\neyeglass. Peter wondered if they would meet again.\n\nThe siren sounded, and a bustle began as people put on their life-belts.\n\"All life-belts on, please,\" said a young officer continually, who, with\na brassard on his arm, was going up and down among the chairs. \"Who's\nthat?\" asked Peter, struggling with his belt.\n\n\"Some poor bloke who has been roped in for crossin' duty,\" said Jenks.\n\"Mind my chair, padre; Bevan and I are going below for a wet. Coming,\nskipper?\"\n\n\"Not yet,\" said Donovan; \"the bar's too full at first for me. Padre and\nI'll come later.\"\n\nThe others stepped off across the crowded deck, and Donovan pitched his\nmagazine into Bevan's chair to retain it.\n\n\"You're from South Africa?\" queried Peter.\n\n\"Yes,\" replied the other. \"I was in German West, and came over after on\nmy own. Joined up with the brigade here.\"\n\n\"What part of Africa?\" asked Peter.\n\n\"Basutoland, padre. Not a bad place in a way--decent climate, topping\nscenery, but rather a stodgy crowd in the camps. One or two decent\npeople, but the majority mid-Victorian, without a blessed notion except\nthe price of mealies, who quarrel about nothing half the time, and talk\ntuppenny-ha'penny scandal the rest. Good Lord! I wish we had some of the\nperishers out here. But they know which side of the bread the butter is.\nBad time for trade, they say, and every other trader has bought a car\nsince the war. Of course, there's something to be said for the other\nside, but what gets my goat is their pettiness. I'm for British East\nAfrica after the war. There's a chap written a novel about Basutoland\ncalled 'The Land of To-morrow,' but I'd call it 'The Land of the Day\nbefore Yesterday.' I suppose some of them came over with an assortment of\nideas one time, but they've struck no new ones since. I don't advise you\nto settle in a South African dorp if you can help it, padre.\"\n\n\"Don't suppose I shall,\" said Peter. \"I've just got engaged, and my\ngirl's people wouldn't let her out of England.\"\n\n\"Engaged, are you? Thank your stars you aren't married. It's safer not to\nbe out here.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\nDonovan looked at him curiously. \"Oh, you'll find out fast enough,\npadre,\" he said. \"Wonder what you'll make of it. Rum place just now,\nFrance, I can tell you. There's the sweepings of half the world over\nthere, and everything's turned upside down. Fellows are out for a spree,\nof course, and you can't be hard on a chap down from the line if he goes\non the bust a bit. It's human nature, and you must allow for it; don't\nyou think so?\"\n\n\"Human nature can be controlled,\" said Peter primly.\n\n\"Can it?\" retorted the other. \"Even the cloth doesn't find it too easy,\napparently.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" demanded Peter, and then added: \"Don't mind telling\nme; I really want to know.\"\n\nDonovan knocked out his pipe, and evaded. \"You've got to be broad-minded,\npadre,\" he said.\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Peter. \"But ...\"\n\n\"Come and have a drink then,\" interrupted the other. \"Jenko and the Major\nare coming back.\"\n\n\"Damned poor whisky!\" said the latter, catching the rail as the boat\nheaved a bit, \"begging your pardon, padre. Better try brandy. If the war\nlasts much longer there'll be no whisky worth drinking this side. I'm off\nit till we get to the club at Boulogne.\"\n\nPeter and Donovan went off together. It was a new experience for Peter,\nbut he wouldn't have owned it. They groped their way down the saloon\nstairs, and through a crowd to the little bar. \"What's yours?\" demanded\nDonovan.\n\n\"Oh, I'll take the Major's advice,\" said Peter. \"Brandy-and-soda for me.\"\n\n\"Soda finished, sir,\" said the bar steward.\n\n\"All right: two brandies-and-water, steward,\" said Donovan, and swung a\nrevolving seat near round for Graham. As he took it, Peter noticed the\nman opposite. His badge was a Maltese Cross, but he wore a flannel collar\nand tie. Their eyes met, but the other stared a bit stonily. For the\nsecond time, Peter wished he hadn't a clerical collar. The next he was\ntaking the glass from the South African. \"Cheerio,\" said Donovan.\n\n\"Here's to you,\" said Peter, and leaned back with an assumption of ease.\n\nHe had a strange sense of unreality. No fool and no Puritan, he had\nnaturally, however, been little in such an atmosphere since ordination.\nHe would have had a drink in Park Lane with the utmost ease, and he would\nhave argued, over it, that the clergy were not nearly so out of touch\nwith men as the papers said. But down here, in the steamer's saloon,\nsurrounded by officers, in an atmosphere of indifference to him and his\noffice, he felt differently. He was aware, dimly, that for the past five\nyears situations in which he had been had been dominated by him, and that\nhe, as a clergyman, had been continually the centre of concern. Talk,\nconduct, and company had been rearranged when he came in, and it had\nhappened so often that he had ceased to be aware of it. But now he was\na mere unit, of no particular importance whatever. No one dreamed of\nmodifying himself particularly because a clergyman was present. Peter\nclung to the belief that it was not altogether so, but he was\nsufficiently conscious of it. And he was conscious of liking it, of\nwanting to sink back in it as a man sinks back in an easy-chair. He\nfelt he ought not to do so, and he made a kind of mental effort to\npull himself together.\n\nUp on the deck the world was very fair. The French coast was now clearly\nvisible, and even the houses of the town, huddled together as it seemed,\nbut dominated by a church on the hill. Behind them, a sister ship\ncontaining Tommies ploughed steadily along, serene and graceful in the\nsunlight, and above an airship of silvery aluminum, bearing the\ntricoloured circle of the Allies, kept pace with the swift ship without\nan effort. Four destroyers were visible, their low, dark shapes ploughing\nregularly along at stated intervals, and someone said a fifth was out of\nsight behind. People were already beginning to take off their life-belts,\nand the sailors were clearing a place for the gangway. Peter found that\nDonovan had known what he was about, for his party would be close to the\ngangway without moving. He began to wonder uneasily what would be done\non landing, and to hope that Donovan would be going his way. No one had\nsaid a word about it. He looked round for Jenks' nurse, but couldn't see\nher.\n\nIt was jolly entering the port. The French houses and fishing-boats\nlooked foreign, although one could hardly say why. On the quay was a big\nnotice: \"All officers to report at once to the M.L.O.\" Farther on was a\nboard bearing the letters \"R.T.O.\" ... But Peter hardly liked to ask.\n\nIn fact, everything went like clockwork. He presently found himself\nin a queue, behind Donovan, of officers who were passing a small\nwindow like a ticket office. Arriving, he handed in papers, and was\ngiven them back with a brief \"All right.\" Beyond, Donovan had secured\na broken-down-looking one-horse cab. \"You'll be coming to the club,\npadre?\" he asked. \"Chuck in your stuff. This chap'll take it down and\nBevan with it. Let's walk. It isn't far.\"\n\nJenks elected to go with his friend the Major, and Donovan and Peter\nset off over the cobbles. They joined up with another small group, and\nfor the first time Peter had to give his name as he was introduced. He\nforgot the others, as soon as he heard them, and they forgot his. A big\nDublin Fusilier officer with a tiny moustache, that seemed ludicrous\nin his great face, exchanged a few sentences with him. They left the\nquay and crossed a wide space where a bridge debouched towards the\nrailway-station. Donovan, who was walking ahead, passed on, but the\nFusilier suggested to Peter that they might as well see the R.T.O. at\nonce about trains. Entering the station gates, the now familiar initials\nappearing on a row of offices before them to the left, Peter's companion\ndemanded the train to Albert.\n\n\"Two-thirty a.m., change at Amiens, sir,\" said a clerk in uniform within,\nand the Fusilier passed on.\n\n\"What time is the Rouen train?\" asked Peter in his turn, and was told\n9.30 p.m.\n\n\"You're in luck, padre,\" said the other. \"It's bally rotten getting in at\ntwo-thirty, and probably the beastly thing won't go till five. Still, it\nmight be worse. You can get on board at midnight, and with luck get to\nsleep. If I were you, I'd be down here early for yours--crowded always,\nit is. Of course, you'll dine at the club?\"\n\nPeter supposed he would.\n\nThe club entrance was full up with officers, and more and more kept\npouring in. Donovan was just leaving the counter on the right with some\ntickets in his hand as they pushed in. \"See you later,\" he called out.\n\"I've got to sleep here, and I want to leave my traps.\"\n\nPeter wondered where, but was too much occupied in keeping well behind\nthe Fusilier to think much. At a kind of counter a girl in a W.A.A.C.\nuniform was serving out tickets of one sort and another, and presently\nthe two of them were before her. For a few francs one got tickets for\nlunch, dinner, bed, a bath, and whatever else one wanted, but Peter\nhad no French money. The Fusilier bought him the first two, however,\nand together they forced their way out into the great lounge. \"Half\nan hour before lunch,\" said his new companion, and then, catching sight\nof someone: \"Hullo, Jack, you back? Never saw you on the boat. Did\nyou ...\" His voice trailed off as he crossed the room.\n\nPeter looked around a little disconsolately. Then he made his way to a\nhuge lounge-chair and threw himself into it.\n\nAll about him was a subdued chatter. A big fire burned in the stove,\nand round it was a wide semicircle of chairs. Against the wall were\nmore, and a small table or two stood about. Nearly every chair had its\noccupant--all sorts and conditions of officers, mostly in undress, and he\nnoticed some fast asleep, with muddied boots. There was a look on their\nfaces, even in sleep, and Peter guessed that some at least were down\nfrom the line on their way to a brief leave. More and more came in\ncontinuously. Stewards with drinks passed quickly in and out about them.\nThe Fusilier and his friend were just ordering something. Peter opened\nhis case and took out a cigarette, tapping it carefully before lighting\nit. He began to feel at home and lazy and comfortable, as if he had been\nthere before.\n\nAn orderly entered with envelopes in his hand. \"Lieutenant Frazer?\" he\ncalled, and looked round inquiringly. There was no reply, and he turned\nto the next. \"Captain Saunders?\" Still no reply. \"Lieutenant Morcombe?\"\nStill no reply. \"Lieutenant Morcombe,\" he called again. Nobody took any\ninterest, and he turned on his heel, pushed the swing-door open, and\ndeparted.\n\nThen Donovan came in, closely followed by Bevan. Peter got up and made\ntowards them. \"Hullo!\" said Bevan. \"Have an appetiser, padre. Lunch will\nbe on in twenty minutes. What's yours, skipper?\"\n\nThe three of them moved on to Peter's chair, and Bevan dragged up\nanother. Peter subsided, and Donovan sat on the edge. Peter pulled\nout his cigarette-case again, and offered it. Bevan, after one or two\nineffectual attempts, got an orderly at last.\n\n\"Well, here's fun,\" he said.\n\n\"Cheerio,\" said Peter. He remembered Donovan had said that in the saloon.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nJenks being attached to the A.S.C. engaged in feeding daily more than\n100,000 men in the Rouen area, Peter and he travelled together. By the\nlatter's advice they reached the railway-station soon after 8.30, but\neven so the train seemed full. There were no lights in the siding, and\nnone whatever on the train, so that it was only by matches that one could\ntell if a compartment was full or empty, except in the case of those from\nwhich candle-light and much noise proclaimed the former indisputably. At\nlast, however, somewhere up near the engine, they found a second-class\ncarriage, apparently unoccupied, with a big ticket marked \"Reserved\" upon\nit. Jenks struck a match and regarded this critically. \"Well, padre,\" he\nsaid, \"as it doesn't say for whom it is reserved, I guess it may as\nwell be reserved for us. So here goes.\" He swung up and tugged at the\ndoor, which for some time refused to give. Then it opened suddenly, and\nSecond-Lieutenant Jenks, A.S.C., subsided gracefully and luridly on the\nground outside. Peter struck another match and peered in. It was then\nobserved that the compartment was not empty, but that a dark-haired,\nlanky youth, stretched completely along one seat, was regarding them\nsolemnly.\n\n\"This carriage is reserved,\" he said.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Jenks cheerfully, \"for us, sir. May I ask what you are doing\nin it?\"\n\nThe awakened one sighed. \"It's worked before, and if you chaps come in\nand shut the door quickly, perhaps it will work again. Three's not too\nbad, but I've seen six in these perishing cars. Come in quickly, for the\nLord's sake!\"\n\nPeter looked round him curiously. Two of the four windows were broken,\nand the glory had departed from the upholstery. There was no light, and\nit would appear that a heavier body than that designed for it had\ntravelled upon the rack. Jenks was swearing away to himself and trying\nto light a candle-end. Peter laughed.\n\n\"Got any cards?\" asked the original owner.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Jenks. \"Got any grub?\"\n\n\"Bath-olivers and chocolate and half a water-bottle of whisky,\" replied\nthe original owner. \"And we shall need them.\"\n\n\"Good enough,\" said Jenks. \"And the padre here has plenty of sandwiches,\nfor he ordered a double lot.\"\n\n\"Do you play auction, padre?\" queried what turned out, in the\ncandle-light, to be a Canadian.\n\nPeter assented; he was moderately good, he knew.\n\nThis fairly roused the Canadian. He swung his legs off the seat, and\ngroped for the door. \"Hang on to this dug-out, you men,\" he said, \"and\nI'll get a fourth. I kidded some fellows of ours with that notice just\nnow, but I know them, and I can get a decent chap to come in.\"\n\nHe was gone a few minutes only; then voices sounded outside. \"Been\nlooking for you, old dear,\" said their friend. \"Only two sportsmen here\nand a nice little show all to ourselves. Tumble in, and we'll get\ncheerful. Not that seat, old dear. But wait a jiffy; let's sort things\nout first.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThey snorted out of the dreary tunnel into Rouen in the first daylight of\nthe next morning. Peter looked eagerly at the great winding river and the\nglory of the cathedral as it towered up above the mists that hung over\nthe houses. There was a fresh taste of spring in the air, and the smoke\ncurled clear and blue from the slow-moving barges on the water. The bare\ntrees on the island showed every twig and thin branch, as if they had\nbeen pencilled against the leaden-coloured flood beneath. A tug puffed\nfussily upstream, red and yellow markings on its grimy black.\n\nJenks was asleep in the corner, but he woke as they clattered across the\nbridge. \"Heigh-ho!\" he sighed, stretching. \"Back to the old graft again.\"\n\nYet once more Peter began to collect his belongings. It seemed ages since\nhe had got into the train at Victoria, and he felt particularly grubby\nand unshaven.\n\n\"What's the next move?\" he asked.\n\nJenks eyed him. \"Going to take a taxi?\" he queried.\n\n\"Where to?\" said Peter.\n\n\"Well, if you ask me, padre,\" he replied, \"I don't see what's against a\ndecent clean-up and breakfast at the club. It doesn't much matter when I\nreport, and the club's handy for your show. I know the A.C.G.'s office,\nbecause it's in the same house as the Base Cashier, and the club's just\nat the bottom of the street. But it's the deuce of a way from the\nstation. If we can get a taxi, I vote we take it.\"\n\n\"Right-o,\" agreed Peter. \"You lead on.\"\n\nThey tumbled out on the platform, and produced the necessary papers at\nthe exit labelled \"British Officers Only.\" A red-capped military\npoliceman wrote down particulars on a paper, and in a few minutes they\nwere out among the crowd of peasantry in the booking-hall. Jenks pushed\nthrough, and had secured a cab by the time Peter arrived. \"There isn't a\ntaxi to be got, padre,\" he said, \"but this'll do.\"\n\nThey rolled off down an avenue of wintry trees, passed a wooden building\nwhich Peter was informed was the English military church, and out on to\nthe stone-paved quay. To Peter the drive was an intense delight. A French\nblue-coated regiment swung past them. \"Going up the line,\" said Jenks. A\ncrowd of black troops marched by in the opposite direction. \"Good Lord!\"\nsaid Jenks, \"so the S.A. native labour has come.\" The river was full of\ncraft, but his mentor explained that the true docks stretched mile on\nmile downstream. By a wide bridge lay a camouflaged steamer. \"Hospital\nship,\" said Jenks. Up a narrow street could be seen the buttresses of the\ncathedral; and if Peter craned his head to glance up, his companion was\nmore occupied in the great café at the corner a little farther on. But\nit was, of course, deserted at that early hour. A flower-stall at the\ncorner was gay with flowers, and two French peasant women were arranging\nthe blooms. And then the fiacre swung into the Rue Joanne d'Arc, and\nopposite a gloomy-looking entrance pulled up with a jerk. \"Here we are,\"\nsaid Jenks. \"It's up an infernal flight of steps.\"\n\nThe officers' club in Rouen was not monstrously attractive, but they got\na good wash in a little room that looked out over a tangle of picturesque\nroofs, and finally some excellent coffee and bacon and eggs.\n\nJenks lit a cigarette and handed one to Peter. \"Better leave your traps,\"\nhe said. \"I'll go up with you; I've nothing to do.\"\n\nOutside the street was filling with the morning traffic, and the two\nwalked up the slight hill to the accompaniment of a running fire of\ncomments and explanations from Jenks, \"That's Cox's--useful place for\nthe first half of a month, but not much use to me, anyway, for the\nsecond.... You ought to go to I that shop and buy picture post-cards,\npadre; there's a topping girl who sells 'em.... Rue de la Grosse\nHorloge--you can see the clock hanging over the road. The street runs\nup to the cathedral: rather jolly sometimes, but nothing doing\nnow.... What's that? I don't know. Yes, I do, Palais de Justice or\nsomething of that sort. Pretty old, I believe.... In those gardens is the\npicture gallery; not been in myself, but I believe they've got some good\nstuff.... That's your show, over there. Don't be long; I'll hang about.\"\n\nPeter crossed the street, and, following directions ascended some wooden\nstairs. A door round the corner at the top was inscribed \"A.C.G. (C. of\nE.),\" and he went up to it. There he cogitated: ought one to knock, or,\nbeing in uniform, walk straight in? He could not think of any reason\nwhy one should not knock being in uniform, so he knocked.\n\n\"Come in,\" said a voice.\n\nHe opened the door and entered. At a desk before him sat a rather elderly\nman, clean-shaven, who eyed him keenly. On his left, with his back to\nhim, was a man in uniform pattering away busily on a typewriter, and, for\nthe rest, the room contained a few chairs, a coloured print of the Light\nof the World over the fireplace, and a torn map. Peter again hesitated.\nHe wondered what was the rank of the officer in the chair, and if he\nought to salute. While he hesitated, the other said: \"Good-morning. What\ncan I do for you?\"\n\nPeter, horribly nervous, made a half-effort at saluting, and stepped\nforward. \"My name's Graham, sir,\" he said. \"I've just come over, and was\ntold in the C.G.'s office in London to report to Colonel Chichester,\nA.C.G., at Rouen.\"\n\nThe other put him at his ease at once. He rose and held a hand out over\nthe littered desk. \"How do you do, Mr. Graham?\" he said. \"We were\nexpecting you. I am the A.C.G. here, and we've plenty for you to do.\nTake a seat, won't you? I believe I once heard you preach at my brother's\nplace down in Suffolk. You were at St. Thomas's, weren't you, down by the\nriver?\"\n\nPeter warmed to the welcome. It was strangely familiar, after the past\ntwenty-four hours, to hear himself called \"Mr.\" and, despite the uniforms\nand the surroundings, he felt he might be in the presence of a vicar in\nEngland. Some of his old confidence began to return. He replied freely\nto the questions.\n\nPresently the other glanced at his watch. \"Well,\" he said, \"I've got to\ngo over to H.Q., and you had better be getting to your quarters. Where\ndid I place Captain Graham, Martin?\"\n\nThe orderly at the desk leaned sideways and glanced at a paper pinned on\nthe desk. \"No. 5 Rest Camp, sir,\" he said.\n\n\"Ah, yes, I remember now. You can get a tram at the bottom of the street\nthat will take you nearly all the way. It's a pretty place, on the edge\nof the country. You'll find about one thousand men in camp, and the\nO.C.'s name is--what is it, Martin?\"\n\n\"Captain Harold, sir.\"\n\n\"Harold, that's it. A decent chap. The men are constantly coming and\ngoing, but there's a good deal to do.\"\n\n\"Is there a chapel in the camp?\" asked Peter.\n\n\"Oh, no, I don't think so. You'll use the canteen. There's a quiet room\nthere you can borrow for celebrations. There's a P.O.W. camp next door\none way and a South African Native Labour Corps lot the other. But they\nhave their own chaplains. We'll let you down easy at first, but you might\nsee if you can fix up a service or so for the men in the forest. There's\na Labour Company out there cutting wood. Maybe you'll be able to get a\nlift out in a car, but get your O.C. to indent for a bicycle if there\nisn't one. Drop in and see me some day and tell me how you are getting\non, I'll find you some more work later on.\"\n\nPeter got up. The other held out his hand, which Peter took, and then,\nremembering O.T.C. days at Oxford, firmly and, unblushingly saluted. The\nColonel made a little motion. \"Good-bye,\" he said, and Peter found\nhimself outside the door.\n\n\"No. 5 Rest. Camp;\" said Jenks a moment later: \"you're in luck, padre.\nIt's a topping camp, and the skipper is an awfully good sort. Beast of a\nlong way out, though. You'll have to have a taxi now.\"\n\n\"The A.C.G. said a tram would do,\" said Peter.\n\n\"Then he talked through his blooming hat,\" replied the other. \"He's\nprobably never been there in his little life. It's two miles beyond the\ntram terminus if it's a yard. My place is just across the river, and\nthere's a ferry that pretty well drops you there. Tell you what I'll do.\nI'll see you down and then skip over.\"\n\n\"What about your stuff, though?\" queried Peter.\n\n\"Oh? bless you, I can get a lorry to collect that. That's one use in\nbeing A.S.C., at any rate.\"\n\n\"It's jolly decent of you,\" said Peter.\n\n\"Not a bit, old dear,\" returned the other. \"You're the right sort, padre,\nand I'm at a loose end just now. Besides, I'd like to see old Harold.\nHe's one of the best. Come on.\"\n\nThey found a taxi this time, near the Gare du Vert, and ran quickly out,\nfirst over cobbles, then down a wide avenue with a macadamised surface\nwhich paralleled the river, downstream.\n\n\"Main road to Havre,\" volunteered Jenks. \"I've been through once or twice\nwith our stuff. It's a jolly pretty run, and you can lunch in Candebec\nwith a bit of luck, which is one of the beauty-spots of the Seine, you\nknow.\"\n\nThe road gave on open country in a few miles, though there were camps\nto be seen between it and the river, with wharves and buildings at\nintervals, and ahead a biggish waterside village. Just short of that\nthey pulled up. A notice-board remarked \"No. 5 Rest Camp,\" and Peter\nsaw he had arrived.\n\nThe sun was well up by this time, and his spirits with it. The country\nsmiled in the clear light. Behind the camp fields ran up to a thick wood\nthrough which wound a road, and the river was just opposite them. A\nsentry came to attention as they passed in, sloped arms, and saluted.\nPeter stared at him. \"You ought to take the salute, padre,\" said Jenks;\n\"you're senior to me, you know.\"\n\nThey passed down a regular street of huts, most of which had little\npatches of garden before them in which the green of some early spring\nflowers was already showing, and stopped before the orderly-room. Jenks\nsaid he would look in and see if \"the skipper\" were inside, and in a\nsecond or two came out with a red-faced, cheerful-looking man, whom\nhe introduced as Captain Harold. With them was a tall young Scots officer\nin a kilt, whom Peter learned was Lieutenant Mackay of their mess.\n\n\"Glad to see you, padre,\" said Harold. \"Our last man wasn't up to much,\nand Jenks says you're a sport. I've finished in there, so come on to the\nmess and let's have a spot for luck. Come on, Scottie. Eleven o'clock's\nall right for you, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Shan't say no,\" said the gentleman addressed, and they passed behind the\norderly-room and in at an open door.\n\nPeter glanced curiously round. The place was very cheerful--a fire\nburning and gay pictures on the wall. \"Rather neat, isn't it, padre?\"\nqueried Harold. \"By the way, you've got to dub up a picture. Everyone in\nthe mess gives one. There's a blank space over there that'll do nicely\nfor a Kirschner, if you're sport enough for that, Jenko'll show you where\nto get a topper. What's yours, old son?\"\n\n\"Same as usual, skipper,\" said Jenks, throwing himself into a chair.\n\nHarold walked across to a little shuttered window and tapped. A man's\nface appeared in the opening, \"Four whiskies, Hunter--that's all right,\npadre?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Peter, and walked to the fire, while the talk became general.\n\n\"First time over?\" queried Mackay.\n\n\"Well, how's town?\" asked Harold. \"Good shows on? I ought to be due next\nmonth, but I think I'll! wait a bit. Want to get over in the spring and\nsee a bit of the country too. What do they think of the war over there,\nJenko?\"\n\n\"It's going to be over by summer. There's a big push coming off this\nspring, and Fritz can't stand much more. He's starving, and has no\nreserves worth talking of. The East does not matter, though the doings\nat Salonika have depressed them no end. This show's going to be won on\nthe West, and that quickly. Got it, old bean?\"\n\n\"Good old Blighty!\" ejaculated Harold. \"But they don't really believe all\nthat, do they, padre?\"\n\n\"They do,\" said Peter. \"And, to tell you the truth, I wondered if\nI'd be over in time myself. Surely the Yanks must come in and make\na difference.\"\n\n\"This time next year, perhaps, though I doubt it. What do you think,\nScottie?\"\n\n\"Oh, ask another! I'm sick of it. Say, skipper, what about that run out\ninto the forest you talked of?\"\n\n\"Good enough. Would you care to go, padre? There's a wood-cuttin' crowd\nout there, and I want to see 'em about firewood. There's a car possible\nto-day, and we could all pack in.\"\n\n\"Count me out,\" said Jenks. \"I'll have to toddle over and report. Sorry,\nall the same.\"\n\n\"I'd love it,\" said Peter. \"Besides, the A.C.G. said I was to look up\nthose people.\"\n\n\"Oh, well done. It isn't a joy-ride at all, then. Have another, padre,\nand let's get off. No? Well, I will. How's yours, Scottie?\"\n\nTen minutes later the three of them got into a big car and glided\nsmoothly off, first along the river, and then up a steep road into the\nforest. Peter, fresh from London, lay back and enjoyed it immensely. He\nhad no idea Normandy boasted such woods, and the world looked very good\nto him. It was all about as different from what he had imagined as it\ncould possibly have been. He just set himself to appreciate it.\n\nThe forest was largely fir and pine, and the sunlight glanced down the\nstraight trunks and patterned on the carpet beneath. Hollies gleamed\ngreen against the brown background, and in an open space of bare beech\ntrees the littered ground was already pricked with the new green of the\nwild hyacinth. Now and again the rounded hills gave glimpses of the far\nNormandy plain across the serpentine river, then would as suddenly close\nin on them again until the car seemed to dart between the advancing\nbattalions of the forest as though to escape capture. At length, in\none such place, they leaped forward up a short rise, then rushed\nswiftly downhill, swung round a corner, and came out on what had\nbecome all but a bare tableland, set high so that one could see\ndistant valleys--Boscherville, Duclair--and yet bare, for the timber\nhad been all but entirely cut down.\n\nFive hundred yards along this road brought them to a small encampment.\nThere were some lines of Nysson huts, a canteen with an inverted triangle\nfor sign, some tents, great stacks of timber and of smaller wood, a few\nlorries drawn up and silent, and, beyond, two or three buildings of wood\nset down by themselves, with a garden in front, and a notice \"Officers'\nQuarters.\" Here, then, Captain Harold stopped the car, and they got out.\nThere were some jovial introductions, and presently the whole party set\noff across the cleared space to where, in the distance, one could see\nthe edge of the forest.\n\nPeter did not want to talk, and dropped a little behind. Harold and the\nO.C. of the forestry were on in front, and Mackay, with a junior local\nofficer, were skirmishing about on the right, taking pot-shots with small\nchunks of wood at the stumps of trees and behaving rather like two\nschool-boys.\n\nThe air was all heavy with resinous scent, and the carpet beneath soft\nwith moss and leaves and fragrant slips of pine. Here and there, on a\ndefinite plan, a small tree had been spared, and when he joined the men\nahead, Peter learned how careful were the French in all this apparently\nwholesale felling. In the forest, as they saw as they reached it, the\nlines were numbered and lettered and in some distant office every\nwoodland group was known with its place and age. There are few foresters\nlike the French, and it was cheering to think that this great levelling\nwould, in a score of years, do more good than harm.\n\nSlowly biting into the untouched regiments of trees were the men, helped\nin their work by a small power engine. The great trunks were lopped and\nroughly squared here, and then dragged by motor traction to a slide,\nwhich they now went to view. It was a fascinating sight. The forest ended\nabruptly on a high hill, and below, at their feet, wound the river. Far\ndown, working on a wharf that had been constructed of piles driven into\nthe mud, was a Belgian detachment with German prisoners, and near the\nwharf rough sheds housed the cutting plant. Where they stood was the\nhead of a big slide, with back-up sides, and the forest giants, brought\nto the top from the place where they were felled, were levered over, to\nswish down in a cloud of dust to the waiting men beneath.\n\n\"Well, skipper, what about the firewood?\" asked Harold as they stood\ngazing.\n\n\"How much do you want?\" asked the O.C. Forestry.\n\n\"Oh, well, what can you let me have? You've got stacks of odd stuff\nabout; surely you can spare a bit.\"\n\n\"It's clean agin regulations, but could you send for it?\"\n\n\"Rather! There's an A.S.C. camp below us, and the men there promised me\na lorry if I'd share the spoils with them. Will that do?\"\n\n\"All right. When will you send up?\"\n\n\"What's to-day? Wednesday? How about Sunday? I could put some boys on to\nload up who'd like the jaunt. How would Sunday do?\"\n\n\"Capital. My chaps work on all day, of course, and I don't want to give\nthem extra, so send some of yours.\"\n\nPeter listened, and now cut in.\n\n\"Excuse me, sir,\" he said, \"but I was told I ought to try and get a\nservice of some sort out here. Could I come out on the lorry and hold\none?\"\n\n\"Delighted, padre, of course. I'll see what I can do for you. About\neleven? Probably you won't get many men as there are usually inspection\nparades and some extra fatigues on Sunday, but I'll put it in orders. We\nhaven't had a padre for a long time.\"\n\n\"Eleven would suit me,\" said Peter, \"if Captain Harold thinks the lorry\ncan get up here by that time. Will it, sir?\"\n\n\"Oh, I should think so, and, anyway, an hour or so won't make much\ndifference. If I can, I'll come with you myself. But, I say, we ought\nto be getting back now. It will be infernally late for luncheon.\"\n\n\"Come and have a drink before you start, anyway,\" said the O.C.; and he\nled the way back to the camp and into an enclosure made of bushes and\nlogs in the rear of the mess, where rustic seats and a table had been\nconstructed under the shade of a giant oak. \"It's rattling here in\nsummer,\" he said, \"and we have most of our meals out of doors. Sit\ndown, won't you? Orderly!\"\n\n\"By Jove! you people are comfortable out here,\" said Harold. \"Wish I had\na job of this sort.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know, skipper; it would feed you up after a while, I think.\nIt's bally lonely in the evening, and we can't always get a car to town.\nIt's a damned nuisance getting out again, too.\" Then, as the orderly\nbrought glasses and a bottle: \"Have a spot. It's Haig and Haig, Mackay,\nand the right, stuff.\"\n\n\"Jolly good, sir,\" said that worthy critically. \"People think because\nI don't talk broad Scots I'm no Highlander, but when it comes to the\nwhisky I've got a Scottish thirst. Say when, sir.\"\n\nPeter had another because he was warm with the sense of good comradeship,\nand was warmer still when he climbed into the car ten minutes later. Life\nseemed so simple and easy; and he was struck with the cheeriness of his\nnew friends, and the ready welcome to himself and his duty. He waved to\nthe O.C. \"See you Sunday, sir,\" he called, out, \"'bout eleven. You won't\nforget to put it in orders, will you? Cheerio.\"\n\n\"Let's go round by the lower road, skipper,\" said Mackay. \"We can look\nin at that toppin' little pub--what's its name, Croix something?--and\nbesides, the surface is capital down there.\"\n\n\"And see Marie, eh? But don't forget you've got a padre aboard.\"\n\n\"Oh, he's all right, and if he's going to be out here, it's time he knew\nMarie.\"\n\nGraham laughed. \"Carry on,\" he said. \"It's all one to me where we go,\nskipper.\"\n\nHe lay back more comfortably than ever, and the big car leaped forward\nthrough the forest, ever descending towards the river level. Soon the\ntrees thinned, and they were skirting ploughed fields. Presently they ran\nthrough a little village, where a German prisoner straightened himself\nfrom his work in a garden and saluted. Then through a wood which suddenly\ngave a vista of an avenue to a stately house, turreted in the French\nstyle, a quarter of a mile away; then over a little stream; then round a\ncouple of corners, past a dreamy old church, and a long immemorial wall,\nand so out into the straight road along the river. The sun gleamed on the\nwater, and there were ships in view, a British and a couple of Norwegian\ntramps, ploughing slowly down to the sea. On the far bank the level of\nthe land was low, but on this side only some narrow apple-orchards and\nhere and there lush water-meadows separated them from the hills.\n\nThe Croix de Guerre stood back from the road in a long garden just where\na forest bridle-path wound down through a tiny village to the main road.\nTheir chauffeur backed the car all but out of sight into this path after\nthey climbed out, and the three of them made for a sidedoor in a high\nwall. Harold opened it and walked in. The pretty trim little garden had\na few flowers in bloom, so sheltered was it, and Mackay picked a red\nrosebud as they walked up the path.\n\nHarold led the way without ceremony into a parlour that opened off a\nverandah, and, finding it empty, opened a door beyond. \"Marie! Marie!\"\nhe called.\n\n\"Ah, Monsieur le Capitaine, I come,\" came a girl's voice, and Marie\nentered. Peter noticed how rapidly she took them all in, and how cold\nwere the eyes that nevertheless sparkled and greeted Harold and Mackay\nwith seeming gaiety. She was short and dark and not particularly\ngood-looking, but she had all the vivacity and charm of the French.\n\n\"Oh, monsieur, where have you been for so long? I thought you had\nforgotten La Croix de Guerre altogether. It's the two weeks--no,\n_three_--since you come here. The gentlemen will have déjeuner? And\nperhaps a little aperitif before?\"\n\n\"Bon jour, Marie,\" began the Captain in clumsy French, and then abandoned\nthe attempt. \"I could not come, Marie, you know. C'est la guerre. Much\nwork each day.\"\n\n\"Ah, non, monsieur cannot cheat me. He had found another cafe and another\ngirl.... Non, non, monsieur, it is not correct;\" and the girl drew\nherself up with a curiously changed air as Harold clumsily reached out\ntowards her, protesting. \"And you have a curé here--how do you say, a\nchapelain?\" and Marie beamed on Peter.\n\nThe two officers looked at him and laughed. \"What can I bring you,\nMonsieur le Capitaine le Curé?\" demanded the girl. \"Vermuth? Cognac?\"\n\nMackay slipped from the edge of the table on which he had been sitting\nand advanced towards her, speaking fluent French, with a curious\nsuggestion of a Scotch accent that never appeared in his English. Peter\nwatched with a smile on his face and a curious medley of feelings, while\nthe Lieutenant explained, that they could not stop to lunch, that they\nwould take three mixed vermuth, and that he would come and help her get\nthem. They went out together, Marie protesting, and Harold, lighting a\ncigarette and offering one to Peter, said with a laugh: \"He's the boy, is\nMackay. Wish I could sling the lingo like him. It's a great country,\npadre.\"\n\nIn a minute or two the pair of them came back, Marie was wearing the rose\nat the point of the little _décolleté_ of her black dress, and was all\nover smiles. She carried a tray with glasses and a bottle. Mackay carried\nthe other. With a great show, he helped her pour out, and chatted away in\nFrench while they drank.\n\nHarold and Peter talked together, but the latter caught scraps of the\nothers' conversation. Mackay wanted to know, apparently, when she would\nbe next in town, and was urging a date on her. Peter caught \"Rue Jeanne\nd'Arc,\" but little more, and Harold was insistent on a move in a few\nminutes. They skirmished at the door saying \"Good-bye,\" but it was with\nan increased feeling of the warmth and jollity of his new life that Peter\nonce more boarded the car. This time Mackay got in front and Harold\njoined Graham behind. As they sped off, Peter said:\n\n\"By Jove, skipper, you do have a good time out here!\"\n\nHarold flicked off the ash of his cigarette. \"So, so, padre,\" he said.\n\"But the devil's loose. It's all so easy; I've never met a girl yet who\nwas not out for a spree. Of course, we don't see anything of the real\nFrench ladies, though, and this isn't the line. By God! when I think of\nthe boys up there, I feel a beast sometimes. But I can't help it; they\nwon't pass me to go up, and it's no use growling down here because of\nit.\"\n\n\"I suppose not,\" said Peter, and leaned back reflecting for the rest of\nthe way. He felt as if he had known these men all his days, and as if his\nLondon life had been lived on another planet.\n\nAfter lunch he was given a cubicle, and spent an hour or two getting\nunpacked. That done, just as he was about to sit down to a letter, there\ncame a knock at the door, and Mackay looked in.\n\n\"You there, padre?\" he asked. \"There's a lorry going up to town that has\njust brought a batch of men in: would you care to come? I've got to do\nsome shopping, and we could dine at the club and come back afterwards.\"\n\nPeter jumped up. \"Topping,\" he said. \"I want to get one or two things,\nand I'd love it.\"\n\n\"Come on, then,\" said the other. \"I'll meet you at the gate in five\nminutes.\"\n\nPeter got on his Sam Browne and went out, and after a bit Mackay joined\nhim. They jolted up to town, and went first to the Officers' Store at the\nE.F.C. Mackay bought some cigarettes, and Peter some flannel collars and\na tie. Together the pair of them strolled round town, and put their heads\nin at the cathedral at Peter's request. He had a vision of old grey stone\nand coloured glass and wide soaring spaces, but his impatient companion\nhauled him out. \"Of course, you'll want to see round, padre,\" he said,\n\"but you can do it some other time and with somebody else. I've seen it\nonce, and that's enough for me. Let's get on to the club and book a\ntable; there's usually a fearful crowd.\"\n\nPeter was immensely impressed with the crowd of men, the easy greetings\nof acquaintances, and the way in which one was ignored by the rest. He\nwas introduced to several people, who were all very cheerful, and in the\nlong dining-room they eventually sat down to table with two more officers\nwhom the Scotsman knew. Peter was rather taken with a tall man, slightly\nbald, of the rank of Captain, who was attached to a Labour Corps. He had\ntravelled a great deal, and been badly knocked about in Gallipoli. In a\nway, he was more serious than the rest, and he told Peter a good deal\nabout the sights of the town--the old houses and churches, and where was\nthe best glass, and so on. Mackay and the fourth made merry, and Mackay,\nwho called the W.A.A.C. waitress by her Christian name, was plainly\ngetting over-excited. Peter's friend was obviously a little scornful.\n\"You'll meet a lot of fools here, padre,\" he said, \"old and young. The\nother day I was having tea here when two old buffers came in--dug-outs,\nshoved into some job or another--and they sat down at the table next\nmine. I couldn't help hearing what they said. The older and fatter, a\nColonel, looked out of window, and remarked ponderously:\n\n\"'By the way, wasn't Joan of Arc born about here?'\n\n\"'No,' said the second; 'down in Alsace-Lorraine, I believe. She was\nburnt here, and they threw her ashes into the Grand Pont.'\"\n\nPeter laughed silently, and the other smiled at him. \"Fact,\" he said.\n\"That's one type of ass, and the second is (dropping his voice) your\nfriend here and his like, if you don't mind my saying so. Look at him\nwith that girl now. Somebody'll spot it, and they'll keep an eye on him.\nNext time he meets her on the sly he'll be caught out, and be up for it.\nDamned silly fool, I think! The bally girl's only a waitress from Lyons.\"\n\nPeter glanced at Mackay. He was leaning back holding the menu, which she,\nwith covert glances at the cashier's desk, was trying to take away from\nhim. \"Isobel,\" he said, \"I say, come here--no, I really want to see\nit--tell me, when do you get out next?\"\n\n\"We don't get no leave worth talking of, you know,\" she said. \"Besides,\nyou don't mean it. You can't talk to me outside. Oh, shut up! I must go.\nThey'll see us,\" and she darted away.\n\n\"Damned pretty girl, eh?\" said Mackay contentedly. \"Don't mind me, padre.\nIt's only a bit of a joke. Come on, let's clear out.\"\n\nThe four went down the stairs together and stood in a little group at\nthe entrance-door. \"Where you for now, Mac?\" asked the second officer,\na subaltern of the West Hampshires.\n\n\"Don't know, old sport. I'm with the padre. What you for, padre?\"\n\n\"I should think we had better be getting back,\" said Peter, glancing at\nthe watch on his wrist. \"We've a long way to go.\"\n\n\"Oh, hang it all, not yet! It's a topping evenin'. Let's stroll up the\nstreet.\"\n\nPeter glanced at the Labour Corps Captain, who nodded, and they two\nturned off together. \"There's not much to do,\" he said. \"One gets sick of\ncinemas, and the music-hall is worse, except when one is really warmed up\nfor a razzle-dazzle. I don't wonder these chaps go after wine and women\nmore than they ought. After all, most of them are just loose from home.\nYou must make allowances, padre. It's human nature, you know.\"\n\nPeter nodded abstractedly. It was the second time he had heard that.\n\"It's all so jolly different from what I expected,\" he said meditatively.\n\n\"I know,\" said the other. \"Not much danger or poverty or suffering here,\nseemingly. But you never can tell. Look at those girls: I bet you would\nprobably sum them up altogether wrongly if you tried.\"\n\nPeter glanced at a couple of French women who were passing. The pair were\nlooking at them, and in the light of a brilliantly lit cinema they showed\nup clearly. The paint was laid on shamelessly; their costumes, made in\none piece, were edged with fur and very gay. Each carried a handbag and\none a tasselled stick. \"Good-night, chérie,\" said one, as they passed.\n\nPeter gave a little shudder. \"How ghastly!\" he said. \"How can anyone\nspeak to them? Are there many like that about?\" He glanced back again:\n\"Why, good heavens,\" he cried, \"one's Marie!\"\n\n\"Hullo, padre,\" said his friend, the ghost of a smile beginning about his\nlips. \"Where have you been? Marie! By Jove! I shall have to report you to\nthe A.C.G.\"\n\nPeter blushed furiously. \"It was at an inn,\" he said, \"this morning, as\nwe were coming back from the forest. But she seemed so much better then,\nMackay knew her; why, I heard him say....\"\n\nHe glanced back at the sudden recollection. The two girls were speaking\nto the two others, twenty paces or so behind. \"Oh,\" he exclaimed, \"look\nhere!...\"\n\nThe tall Labour man slipped his arm in his and interrupted. \"Come on,\npadre,\" he said; \"you can't do anything. Mackay's had a bit too much as\nit is, and the other chap is looking for a night out. We'll stroll past\nthe cathedral, and I'll see you a bit of the way home.\"\n\n\"But how damnable, how beastly!\" exclaimed Peter. \"It makes one\nsick!...\" He broke off, and the two walked on in silence.\n\n\"Is there much of that?\" Peter demanded suddenly.\n\nThe other glanced at him. \"You'll find out without my telling you,\" he\nsaid; \"but don't be too vehement till you've got your eyes open. There\nare worse things.\"\n\n\"There can't be,\" broke in Peter. \"Women like that, and men who will go\nwith them, aren't fit to be called men and women. There's no excuse. It's\nbestial, that's what it is.\"\n\n\"You wouldn't speak to one?\" queried the other.\n\n\"Good heavens, no! Do you forget what I am?\"\n\n\"No, I don't, padre, but look here, I'm not a Christian, and I take a\ncommon-sense view of these things, but I'm bound to say I think you're on\nthe wrong tack, too. Didn't Christ have compassion on people like that?\nDidn't He eat and drink with publicans and sinners?\"\n\n\"Yes, to convert them. You can't name the two things in the same breath.\nHe had compassion on the multitude of hungry women and children and\nmisguided men, but He hated sin. You can't deny that.\" Peter recalled his\nsermon; he was rather indignant, unreasonably, that the suggestion should\nhave been made.\n\n\"So?\" said the other laconically. \"Well, you know more about it than\nI do, I suppose. Come on; we go down here.\"\n\nThey parted at the corner by the river again, and Peter set out for his\nlong walk home alone. It was a lovely evening of stars, cool, but not too\ncold, and at first the streets were full of people. He kept to the curb\nor walked in the road till he was out of the town, taking salutes\nautomatically, his thoughts far away. The little _cafés debits_ were\ncrowded, largely by Tommies. He was not accosted again, for he walked\nfast, but he saw enough as he went.\n\nMore than an hour later he swung into camp, and went to his room, lit a\ncandle, and shut the door. Tunic off, he sat on the edge of the camp-bed\nand stared at the light. He seemed to have lived a year in a day, and he\nfelt unclean. He thought of Hilda, and then actually smiled, for Hilda\nand this life seemed so incredibly far apart. He could not conceive of\nher even knowing of its existence. Yet, he supposed, she knew, as he had\ndone, that such things were. He had even preached about them.... It\nsuddenly struck him that he had talked rot in the pulpit, talked of\nthings of which he knew nothing. Yet, of course, his attitude had been\nright.\n\nHe wondered if he should speak to Mackay, and, so wondering, fell forward\non his knees.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nHilda's religion was, like the religion of a great many Englishwomen of\nher class, of a very curious sort. She never, of course, analysed it\nherself, and conceivably she would object very strongly to the\ndescription set down here, but in practical fact there is no doubt about\nthe analysis. To begin with, this conventional and charming young lady of\nPark Lane had in common with Napoleon Bonaparte that Christianity meant\nmore to them both as the secret of social order than as the mystery of\nthe Incarnation. Hilda was convinced that a decent and orderly life\nrested on certain agreements and conclusions in respect to marriage and\nclass and conduct, and that these agreements and conclusions were\nadmirably stated in the Book of Common Prayer, and most ably and\ndecorously advocated from the pulpit of St. John's. She would have said\nthat she believed the agreements and conclusions because of the Prayer\nBook, but in fact she had primarily given in her allegiance to a social\nsystem, and supported the Prayer Book because of its support of that.\nOnce a month she repeated the Nicene Creed, but only because, in the\nnature of things, the Nicene Creed was given her once a month to repeat,\nand she never really conceived that people might worry strenuously about\nit, any more than she did. Being an intelligent girl, she knew, of\ncourse, that people did, and occasionally preachers occupied the pulpit\nof St. John's who were apparently quite anxious that she and the rest\nof the congregation should understand that it meant this and not that,\nor that and not this, according to the particular enthusiasm of the\nclergyman of the moment. Sentence by sentence she more or less understood\nwhat these gentlemen keenly urged upon her; as a whole she understood\nnothing. She was far too much the child of her environment and age not\nto perceive that Mr. Lloyd George's experiments in class legislation were\nvastly more important.\n\nPeter, therefore, had always been a bit of an enigma to her. As a rule\nhe fitted in with the scheme of things perfectly well, for he was a\ngentleman, he liked nice things, and he was splendidly keen on charity\norganisation and the reform of abuses on right lines. But now and again\nhe said and did things which perturbed her. It was as if she had\ngradually become complete mistress of a house, and then had suddenly\ndiscovered a new room into which she peeped for a minute before it was\nlost to her again and the door shut. It was no Bluebeard's chamber into\nwhich she looked; it was much more that she had a suspicion that the room\ncontained a live mistress who might come out one day and dispute her own\ntitle. She could tell how Peter would act nine times out of ten; she knew\nby instinct, a great deal better than he did, the conceptions that ruled\nhis life; but now and again he would hesitate perplexedly as if at the\nthought of something that she did not understand, or act suddenly in\nresponse to an overwhelming flood of impulse whose spring was beyond her\ncontrol or even her surmise. Women mother all their men because men are\non the whole such big babies, but from a generation of babies is born\noccasionally the master. Women get so used to the rule that they forget\nthe exception. When he comes, then, they are troubled.\n\nBut this was not all Hilda's religion. For some mysterious reason this\nproduct of a highly civilised community had the elemental in her. Men and\nwomen both have got to eliminate all trace of sex before they can\naltogether escape that. In other words, because in her lay latent the\npower of birth, in which moment she would be cloistered alone in a dark\nand silent room with infinity, she clung unreasonably and all but\nunconsciously to certain superstitions which she shared with primitive\nsavages and fetish-worshippers. All of which seems a far cry from the War\nIntercession Services at wealthy and fashionable St. John's, but it was\nnothing more or less than this which was causing her to kneel on a high\nhassock, elbows comfortably on the prayer-rail, and her face in her\nhands, on a certain Friday evening in the week after Peter's arrival in\nFrance, while the senior curate (after suitable pauses, during which her\nmind was uncontrollably busy with an infinite number of things, ranging\nfrom the doings of Peter in France to the increasing difficulty of\nobtaining silk stockings), intoned the excellent stately English of\nthe Prayers set forth by Authority in Time of War.\n\nTwo pews ahead of her knelt Sir Robert Doyle, in uniform. That simple\nsoldier was a bigger child than most men, and was, therefore, still\nconscious of a number of unfathomable things about him, for the which\nHilda, his godchild, adored and loved him as a mother will adore her\nchild who sits in a field of buttercups and sees, not minted, nor\nbotanical, but heavenly gold. He was all the more lovable, because he\nconceived that he was much bigger and stronger than she, and perfectly\ncapable of looking after her. In that, he was like a plucky boy who gets\nup from his buttercups to tell his mother not to be frightened when a cow\ncomes into the field.\n\nThey went out together, and greeted each other in the porch.\n\"Good-evening, child,\" said the soldier, with a smile. \"And how's Peter?\"\n\nHilda smiled back, but after a rather wintry fashion, which the man was\nquick to note. \"I couldn't have told you fresh news yesterday,\" she said,\n\"but I had a letter this morning all about his first Sunday. He's at\nRouen at a rest camp for the present, though he thinks he's likely to be\nmoved almost at once; and he's quite well.\"\n\n\"And then?\" queried the other affectionately.\n\n\"Oh, he doesn't know at all, but he says he doesn't think there's any\nchance of his getting up the line. He'll be sent to another part where\nthere is likely to be a shortage of chaplains soon.\"\n\n\"Well, that's all right, isn't it? He's in no danger at Rouen, at any\nrate. If we go on as we're going on now, they won't even hear the guns\ndown there soon. Come, little girl, what's worrying you? I can see\nthere's something.\"\n\nThey were in the street now, walking towards the park, and Hilda did not\nimmediately reply. Then she said: \"What are you going to do? Can't you\ncome in for a little? Father and mother will be out till late, and you\ncan keep me company.\"\n\nHe glanced at his watch. \"I've got to be at the War Office later,\" he\nsaid, \"but my man doesn't reach town till after ten, so I will. The\nclub's not over-attractive these days. What with the men who think one\nknows everything and won't tell, and the men who think they know\neverything and want to tell, it's a bit trying.\"\n\nHilda laughed merrily. \"Poor Uncle Bob,\" she said, giving him her\nchildhood's name that had never been discontinued between them. \"You\nshall come home with me, and sit in father's chair, and have a still\ndecent whisky and a cigar, and if you're very good I'll read you part\nof Peter's letter.\"\n\n\"What would Peter say?\"\n\n\"Oh, he wouldn't mind the bits I'll read to you. Indeed, I think he'd\nlike it: he'd like to know what you think. You see, he's awfully\ndepressed; he feels he's not wanted out there, and--though I don't know\nwhat he means--that things, religious things, you know, aren't real.\"\n\n\"Not wanted, eh?\" queried the old soldier. \"Now, I wonder why he resents\nthat. Is it because he feels snubbed? I shouldn't be surprised if he had\na bit of a swelled head, your young man, you know, Hilda.\"\n\n\"Sir Robert Doyle, if you're going to be beastly, you can go to your\nhorrid old club, and I only hope you'll be worried to death. Of course\nit isn't that. Besides, he says everyone is very friendly and welcomes\nhim--only he feels that that makes it worse. He thinks they don't\nwant--well, what he has to give, I suppose.\"\n\n\"What he has to give? But what in the world has he to give? He has to\ntake parade services, and visit hospitals and\" (he was just going to say\n\"bury the dead,\" but thought it hardly sounded pleasant), \"make himself\ngenerally decent and useful, I suppose. That's what chaplains did when I\nwas a subaltern, and jolly decent fellows they usually were.\"\n\n\"Well, I know. That's what I should feel, and that's what I don't quite\nunderstand. I suppose he feels he's responsible for making the men\nreligious--it reads like that. But you shall hear the letter yourself.\"\n\nDoyle digested this for a while in silence. Then he gave a sort of snort,\nwhich is inimitable, but always accompanied his outbursts against things\nslightly more recent than the sixties. It had the effect of rousing\nHilda, at any rate.\n\n\"Don't, you dear old thing,\" she said, clutching his arm. \"I know\nexactly what you're going to say. Young men of your day minded their\nbusiness and did their duty, and didn't theorise so much. Very likely.\nBut, you see, our young men had the misfortune to be born a little later\nthan you. And they can't help it.\" She sighed a little. \"It _is_ trying\nsometimes.... But they're all right really, and they'll come back to\nthings.\"\n\nThey were at the gate by now. Sir Robert stood aside to let her pass. \"I\nknow, dear,\" he said, \"I'm an old fogey. Besides, young Graham has good\nstuff in him--I always said so. But if he's on the tack of trying to\nstick his fingers into people's souls, he's made a mistake in going to\nFrance. I know Tommy--or I did know him. (The Lord alone knows what's in\nthe Army these days.) He doesn't want that sort of thing. He swears and\nhe grouses and he drinks, but he respects God Almighty more than you'd\nthink, and he serves his Queen--I mean his King. A parade service is a\nparade, and it's a bore at times, but it's discipline, and it helps in\nthe end. Like that little 'do' to-night, it helps. One comes away feelin'\none can stand a bit more for the sake of the decent, clean things of\nlife.\"\n\nHilda regarded the fine, straight old man for a second as they stood, on\nthe top of the steps. Then her eyes grew a little misty. \"God bless you,\nUncle Bob,\" she said. \"You _do_ understand.\" And the two went in\ntogether.\n\nHilda opened the door of the study. \"I'm going to make you comfortable\nmyself,\" she said. She pulled a big armchair round; placed a reading-lamp\non a small table and drew it close; and she made the old soldier sit in\nthe chair. Then she unlocked a little cupboard, and got out a decanter\nand siphon and glass, and a box of cigars. She placed these by his side,\nand stood back quizzically a second. Then she threw a big leather cushion\nat his feet and walked to the switches, turning off the main light and\nleaving only the shaded radiance of the reading-lamp. She turned the\nshade of it so that the light would fall on the letter while she sat\non the cushion, and then she bent down, kissed her godfather, and went\nto the door. \"I won't be a moment, Uncle Bob,\" she said. \"Help yourself,\nand get comfortable.\"\n\nFive minutes later the door opened and she came in. As she moved into\nthe circle of light, the man felt an absurd satisfaction, as if he were\npartly responsible for the dignified figure with its beautifully waved\nsoft, fair hair, of which he was so proud. She smiled on him, and sat\ndown at his feet, leaning back against his chair and placing her left\nelbow on his knees. He laid a caressing hand on her arm, and then looked\nsteadily in front of him lest he should see more than she wished.\n\nHilda rustled the sheets. \"The first is all about me,\" she explained,\n\"and I'll skip that. Let me see--yes, here we are. Now listen. It's\nrather long, but you mustn't say anything till I've finished.\"\n\n\"'Saturday' (Peter's letter ran) I gave up to getting ready for Sunday,\nthough Harold' (he's the O.C. of the camp, Peter says, a jolly decent\nsort of man) 'wanted me to go up town with him. I had had a talk with him\nabout the services, and had fixed up to have a celebration in the morning\nin the Y.M.C.A. in camp--they have a quiet room, and there is a table in\nit that one puts against the wall and uses for an altar--and an evening\nservice in the canteen-hall part of the place. I couldn't have a morning\nservice, as I was to go out to the forest camp, as I have told you.' He\nsaid in his first letter how he had been motored out to see a camp in the\nforest where they are cutting wood for something, and he had fixed up a\nparade,\" said Hilda, looking up. Doyle nodded gravely, and she went on\nreading: \"'Harold said he'd like to take Communion, and that I could put\nup a notice in the anteroom of the Officers' Mess.\n\n\"'Well, I spent the morning preparing sermons. I thought I'd preach from\n\"The axe is laid to the root of the tree\" in the forest, and make a sort\nof little parable out of it for the men. I planned to say how Christ was\nreally watching and testing each one of us, especially out here, and to\nbegin by talking a bit about Germany, and how the axe was being laid to\nthat tree because it wouldn't bear good fruit. I couldn't get much for\nthe evening, so I thought I'd leave it, and perhaps say much the same as\nthe morning, only differently introduced. I went and saw the hut manager,\na very decent fellow who is a Baptist minister at home, and he said he'd\nlike to come in the morning. Well, I didn't know what to say to that; I\nhated to hurt him, and, of course, he has no Baptist chapel out here; but\nI didn't know what the regulations might be, and excused myself on those\ngrounds.\n\n\"'Then in the afternoon I went round the camp. Oh, Hilda, I was fearfully\nnervous--I don't know why exactly, but I was. The men were playing \"crown\nand anchor,\" and sleeping, and cleaning kit (this is a rest camp you\nknow), and it seemed so cold-blooded somehow. I told them anyone could\ncome in the evening if he wanted to, but that in the morning the service\nwas for Church of England communicants. I must say I was very bucked up\nover the result. I had no end of promises, and those who were going to be\nout in the evening said so straight out. Quite thirty said they'd come in\nthe morning, and they were very respectful and decent. Then I wrote out\nand put up my notices. The mess ragged a bit about it, but quite decently\n(\"Here's the padre actually going to do a bit of work!\" and the usual\n\"I shall be a chaplain in the next war!\"); and I mentioned to one or two\nwhom I knew to be Church of England that Captain Harold had said he would\ncome to the early service. Someone had told me that if the O.C. of a camp\ncomes, the others often will. After dinner we settled down to bridge,\nand about ten-thirty I was just going off to bed when Harold came in with\ntwo or three other men. Well, I hate to tell you, dear, but I promised\nI'd write, and, besides, I do want to talk to somebody. Anyway, he was\nwhat they call \"merry,\" and he and his friends were full of talk about\nwhat they'd done up town. I don't know that it was anything very bad, but\nit was awful to me to think that this chap was going to communicate next\nday. I didn't know what to do, but I couldn't say anything then, and I\nslipped off to bed as soon as I could. They made a huge row in the\nanteroom for some time, but at last I got to sleep.\n\n\"'Next morning I was up early, and got things fixed up nicely. At eight\no'clock _one man_ came rather sheepishly--a young chap I'd seen the day\nbefore--and I waited for some five minutes more. Then I began. About the\nCreed, Harold came in, and so we finished the service. Neither of them\nseemed to know the responses at all, and I don't think I have ever felt\nmore miserable. However, I had done all I could do, and I let it go at\nthat. I comforted myself that I would get on better in the forest, where\nI thought there was to be a parade.\n\n\"'We got out about eleven o'clock, and I went to the O.C.'s hut. He\nwas sitting in a deck chair reading a novel. He jumped up when he saw\nme, and was full of apologies. He'd absolutely forgotten I was coming,\nand so no notice had been given, and, anyway, apparently it isn't the\ncustom in these camps to have ordered parade services. He sent for the\nSergeant-Major, who said the men were mostly cleaning camp, but he\nthought he could get some together. So I sat and talked for about twenty\nminutes, and then went over. The canteen had been opened, and there were\nabout twenty men there. They all looked as if they had been forced in,\nexcept one, who turned out to be a Wesleyan, and chose the hymns out of\nthe Y.M.C.A. books in the place. They had mission hymns, and the only one\nthat went well was \"Throw out the life-line,\" which is really a rather\nghastly thing. We had short Matins, and I preached as I had arranged. The\nmen sat stiffly and looked at me. I don't know why, but I couldn't work\nup any enthusiasm and it all seemed futile. Afterwards I tried to talk to\nthis Wesleyan corporal. He was great on forming a choir to learn hymns,\nand then I said straight out that I was new to this sort of work, and I\nhoped what I had said was all right. He said: \"Yes, sir, very nice, I'm\nsure; but, if you'll excuse me, what the men need is converting.\"\n\n\"'Said I: \"What exactly do you mean by that, corporal?\"\n\n\"'\"Well, sir,\" he said \"they want to be led to put their trust in the\nLord and get right with God. There's many a rough lad in this camp, sir.\nIf you knew what went on, you'd see it.\"\n\n\"I said that I had told them God was watching them, and that we had to\nask His daily help to live clean, honest lives, and truly repent of our\nsins.\n\n\"'\"Yes, you did, sir,\" he said. \"That's what I say, sir, it was very\nnice; only somehow these chaps have heard that before. It don't grip,\nsir. Now, we had a preacher in our chapel once....\" And he went on to\ntell me of some revival mission.\n\n\"'Well, I went back to the O.C. He wanted me to have a drink, and I did,\nfor, to tell you the truth, I felt like it. Then I got back to camp.\n\n\"'In the afternoon I went round the lines again. Hilda, I _wish_ I could\ntell you what I felt. Everyone was decent enough, but the men would get\nup and salute as I came up, and by the very sound of their voices you\ncould tell how their talk changed as soon as they saw me. Mind you, they\nwere much more friendly than men at home, but I felt all the time out of\ntouch. They didn't want me, and somehow Christ and the Gospel seemed a\nlong way off. However, we had the evening service. The hut was fairly\nfull, which pleased me, and I preached a much more \"Gospel\" address than\nin the morning. Some officers came, and then afterwards two or three of\nus went out for a stroll and a talk.\n\n\"'Among these officers was a tall chap I had met at the club, named\nLangton. He had come down to see somebody in our mess, and had come on to\nservice. He is an extraordinarily nice person, different from most, a man\nwho thinks a lot and controls himself. He did most of the talking, and\nbegan as we strolled up the hill.\n\n\"'\"Padre,\" he said, \"how _does_ Christ save us?\"\n\n\"'I said He had died to obtain our forgiveness from God, and that, if we\ntrusted in Him, He would forgive and help us to live nobler and manlier\nlives. (Of course, I said much more, but I see plainly that that is what\nit all comes to.)\n\n\"'When I had done, he walked on for a bit in silence, and then he said,\n\"Do you think the men understand that?\"\n\n\"'I said I thought and hoped they might. It was simple enough.\n\n\"'\"Well,\" he said, \"it's hopeless jargon to me. If I try to analyse it,\nI am knocked out right and left by countless questions; but leave that.\nIt is when I try to take you practically at your word that I find you are\nmumbling a fetish. Forgive me, but it is so.\"\n\n\"'I was a little annoyed and very troubled. \"Do explain,\" I said.\n\n\"'\"All right, only you mustn't mind if I hurt you,\" he said. \"Take _Trust\nin Christ_--well, that either means that a man gets intoxicated by an\nidea which does control his life, just as it would if he were intoxicated\nby the idea _Trust in Buddha_, or else it comes to nothing. I can't\nreally trust in a dead man, or a man on the right hand of the throne of\nGod. What Tommy wants is a pal to lean on in the canteen and the street.\nHe wants somebody more real and more lovable and more desirable than the\ngirl who tempts him into sin. And he can't be found. Was he in your\nservice to-night? Can he be emotionally conjured up by 'Yield not to\ntemptation' or 'Dare to be a Daniel'? Be honest, padre--the thing is a\nspectre of the imagination.\"\n\n\"'I was absolutely silent. He went on:\n\n\"'\"You make much talk of sin and forgiveness. Well, Tommy doesn't\nunderstand what you mean by sin. He is confused to bits about it; but\nthe main thing that stands out is that a man may break all the Ten\nCommandments theologically and yet be a rattling good pal, as brave as\na lion, as merry as a cricket, and the life and soul and _Christ_ of a\nplatoon. That's the fact, and it is the one thing that matters. But there\nis another thing: if a man sins, how is he to get forgiveness? What sort\nof a God is it Who will wipe the whole blessed thing out because in a\nmoment of enthusiasm the sinner says he is sorry? If that's all sin is,\nit isn't worth worrying about, and if that is all God is, He's not got\nthe makings of a decent O.C.\"\n\n\"'\"Good for you, skipper,\" said the other man.\n\n\"'Langton rounded on him. \"It isn't good for me or for anyone,\" he said.\n\"And I'll tell you what, my boy: all that I've said doesn't justify a man\nmaking a beast of himself, which is what the majority of us do. I can see\nthat a man may very wisely get drunk at times, but he's a ---- fool to\nget himself sodden with drink.\" (And he went on to more, Hilda, that I\ncan't write to you.)\n\n\"'Well, I don't know what I said. I went back utterly miserable. Oh,\nHilda, I think I never ought to have come out here. Langton's right in a\nway. We clergy have said the same thing so often that we forget how it\nstrikes a practical common-sense man. But there must be an answer\nsomewhere, if I only knew it. Meantime I'm like a doctor among the dying\nwho cannot diagnose the disease. I'm like a salesman with a shop full of\ngoods that nobody wants because they don't fulfil the advertisement. And\nI never felt more utterly alone in my life.\n\n\"'These men talk a different language from mine; they belong to another\nworld. They are such jolly good fellows that they are prepared to accept\nme as a comrade without question, but as for my message, I might as well\nbe trying to cure smallpox by mouthing sonorous Virgil--only it is worse\nthan that, for they no longer even believe that the diagnosis is what I\nsay. And what gets over me is that they are, on the whole, decent chaps.\nThere's Harold--he's probably immoral and he certainly drinks too much,\nbut he's as unselfish as possible, and I feel in my bones he'd do\nanything to help a friend.\n\n\"'Of course, I hate their vices. The sights in the streets make me feel\npositively sick. I wouldn't touch what they touch with a stick. When I\nthink of you, so honest and upright and clean....' Oh, but I needn't read\nthat, Uncle Bob.\" She turned over a page or so. \"I think that's all.\nNo, just this:\n\n\"'I've been made mess secretary, and I serve out coffee in the canteen\nfor a couple of hours every other day. That's about all there is to do. I\nwish to Heaven I had an ordinary commission!\"\n\nThe girl's voice ceased with a suspicious suddenness, and the man's\nhand tightened on her arm. For a minute they remained so, and then,\nimpulsively and unrestrained, she half-turned and sobbed out against his\nknees:\n\n\"Oh, Uncle Bob, I'm so unhappy! I feel so sorry for him. And--and--the\nworst is, I don't really understand.... I don't see what worries him. Our\nreligion is good enough, I'm sure. Oh, I _hate_ those beasts of men out\nthere! Peter's too good for them. I wish he'd never gone. I feel as if\nhe'd never come back!\"\n\n\"There, there, my dear,\" said the old soldier, uncomfortably. \"Don't take\non so. He'll find his feet, you know. It's not so bad as that. You can\ntrust him, can't you?\"\n\nShe nodded vigorously. \"But what do _you_ think of it all?\" she demanded.\n\nSir Robert Doyle cleared his throat. \"Well,\" he began, but stopped. To\nhim it was an extraordinarily hard thing to speak of religion, partly\nbecause he cherished so whole-heartedly what he had got, and partly\nbecause he had never formulated it, probably for that very reason. Sir\nRobert could hardly have told his Maker what he believed about Him. When\nhe said the Creed he always said it with lowered voice and bowed head, as\none who considered very deeply of the matter, but in fact he practically\nnever considered at all....\n\n\"Well,\" he began again, \"you see, dear, it's a strange time out there,\nand it is a damned unpleasant age, if you'll excuse me. People can't take\nanything these days without asking an infernal number of questions. Some\nblessed Socialist'll begin to ask why a man should love his mother next,\nand, not getting a scientific answer, argue that one shouldn't. As for\nthe men, they're all right, or they used to be. 'Love the Brotherhood.\nFear God. Honour the King'--that's about enough for you and me, I take\nit, and Graham'll find it's enough for him. And he'll play the game, and\ndecent men will like him and get--er--helped, my dear. That's all there\nis to it. But it's a pity,\" added the old Victorian Regular, \"that these\nblessed labour corps, and rest camps, and all the rest of it, don't have\nparade services. The boy's bound to miss that. I'm hanged if I don't\nspeak about it!... And that reminds me.... Good Lord, it's ten o'clock!\nI must go.\"\n\nHe started up, Hilda rose, smiling a little.\n\n\"That's better,\" said the old fellow; \"must be a man, what? It's all a\nbit of the war, you know.\"\n\n\"Oh, Uncle Bob, you _are_ a dear. You do cheer one up, somehow. I wish\nmen were more like you.\"\n\n\"No, you don't, my dear, don't you think it. I'm a back number, and you\nknow it, as well as any.\"\n\n\"You're not, Uncle Bob. I won't have you say it. Give me a kiss and say\nyou don't mean it.\"\n\n\"Well, well, Hilda, there is life in the old dog yet, and I must be off\nand show it. No, I won't have another, not before duty. Good-night, dear,\nand don't worry.\"\n\nHilda saw him off, and waved her hand from the door. Then she went back\nslowly to the study and looked round. She stood a few moments and then\nswitched off the lights, and went out and slowly upstairs. The maid was\nin the bedroom, and she dismissed her, keeping her face turned away. In\nfront of her glass, she held her letter irresolutely a moment, and then\nfolded it and slipped it into a drawer. She lifted a photo from the\ndressing-table and looked at it for a few minutes earnestly. Then she\nwent to her window, threw it up, and leaned on the sill, staring hard\nover the dark and empty park.\n\nOutside, the General walked some distance before he found a taxi. He\nwalked fast for a man of his age, and ruminated as he went. It was his\nway, and the way of his kind. Most of the modern sciences left him\nunmoved, and although he would vehemently have denied it, he was the\nmost illogical of men. He held fast by a few good, sound, old-fashioned\nprinciples, and the process of thought, to him, meant turning over a new\nthing until he had got it into line with these principles. It was an\nexcellent method as far as it went, and it made him what he was--a\nthoroughly sound and dependable servant of the State in any routine\nbusiness.\n\nAt the War Office he climbed more slowly up the steps and into the lobby.\nAn officer was just coming out, and they recognised each other under the\nshaded lights. \"Hullo, Chichester, what are you doing here?\" demanded\nDoyle heartily. \"Thought you were in France.\"\n\n\"So I was, up to yesterday. I've just arrived. Orders.\"\n\n\"Where have you been?\"\n\n\"Rouen. It's a big show now. Place full of new troops and mechanics in\nuniform. To tell you the truth, Doyle, the Army's a different proposition\nfrom what it was when you and I were in Egypt and India. But that's a\nlong time ago, old friend.\"\n\n\"Rouen, eh? Now, that's a coincidence. A young chap I know has just gone\nthere, in your department. Graham--Peter Graham. Remember him?\"\n\n\"Oh, quite well. A very decent chap, I thought. Joined us ten days ago or\nso. What about it? I forget for the moment where we put him.\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing, nothing. He'll find his feet all right. But what's this\nabout no parade services these days?\"\n\n\"No parade services? We have 'em all right, when we can. Of course, it\ndepends a bit on the O.C., and in the Labour Corps especially it isn't\nusually possible. It isn't like the line, old fellow, and even the line\nisn't what we knew it. You can't have parade services in trenches, and\nyou can't have them much when the men are off-loading bully beef or\nmending aeroplanes and that sort of thing. This war's a big proposition,\nand it's got to go on. Why? Young Graham grousing?\"\n\n\"No, no--oh, no,\" hastily asserted Doyle, the soul of honour. \"No, not at\nall. Only mentioned not getting a parade, and it seemed to me a pity.\nThere's a lot in the good old established religion.\"\n\n\"Is there?\" said the other thoughtfully. \"I'm not so sure to-day. The men\ndon't like being ordered to pray. They prefer to come voluntarily.\"\n\nDoyle got fierce. \"Don't like being ordered, don't they? Then what the\ndeuce are they there for? Good Lord, man! the Army isn't a debating\nsociety or a mothers' meeting. You might as well have voluntary games\nat a public school!\"\n\nThe A.C.G. smiled. \"That's it, old headstrong! No, my boy, the Army isn't\na mothers' meeting--at any rate, Fritz doesn't think so. But times have\nchanged, and in some ways they're better. I'd sooner have fifty men at a\nvoluntary service than two hundred on a parade.\"\n\n\"Well, I wouldn't,\" exploded Doyle. \"I know your voluntary\nservices--Moody and Sankey hymns on a Sunday night. The men had better\nbe in a decent bar. But turn 'em out in the morning, clean and decent\non parade, and give 'em the old service, and it'll tighten 'em up and\ndo 'em good. Voluntary service! You'll have volunteer evangelists\ninstead of Army chaplains next!\"\n\nColonel Chichester still smiled, but a little grimly. \"We've got them,\"\nhe said. \"And no doubt there's something in what you say; but times\nchange, and the Church has got to keep abreast of the times. But, look\nhere, I must go. What about a luncheon? I've not got much leave.\"\n\n\"So must I; I've an appointment,\" said Doyle. \"But all right, old friend,\nto-morrow at the club. But you're younger than I, Chichester, or perhaps\nyou parsons don't get old as quickly!\"\n\nThey shook hands and parted. Sir Robert was busy for an hour, and came\nout again with his head full of the proposed plans for the aerial defence\nof London. \"Taxi, sir?\" he was asked at the door. \"No,\" he replied; \"I'll\nwalk home.\"\n\n\"Best way to think, walking at night,\" he said to himself as he turned\ndown Whitehall, through the all but empty streets, darkened as they were.\nThe meaning of those great familiar spaces struck him as he walked.\nHardly formulating it, he became aware of a sense of pride and\nresponsibility as he passed scene after scene of England's past glory.\nThe old Abbey towered up in the moonlight, solemn and still, but almost\nas if animate and looking at him. He felt small and old as he passed into\nVictoria Street. There the Stores by night made him smile at the\ncontrast, but in Ashley Gardens Westminster Cathedral made him frown. If\nhe hated anything, it was that for which it stood. Romanism meant to him\nsomething effeminate, sneaking, monstrous.... That there should be\nEnglishmen to build such a place positively angered him. He was not\nexactly a bigot or a fanatic; he would not have repealed the Emancipation\nActs; and he would have said that if anyone wanted to be a Romanist,\nhe had better be one. But he would not have had time for anyone who did\nso want, and if he should have had to have by any chance dealings with a\npriest, he would have been so frigidly polite that the poor fellow would\nprobably have been frozen solid. Of course, Irishmen were different,\nand he had known some capital fellows, Irish priests and chaplains....\n\nAnd then he saw two men ahead of him. They were privates on leave and\ndrunk, but not hopelessly drunk. They were trying to negotiate the blank\nof the entrance to the Catholic Soldiers' Hut in the protecting wall\nwhich guarded the pavement just beyond the cathedral. As Sir Robert came\nwithin earshot, one of them stumbled through it and collapsed profanely.\nHe halted for a second irresolutely, with the officer's hesitancy at\nmeddling with a drunken man.\n\nThe fellow on the ground tried to raise himself, and got one elbow on the\ngravel. This brought him into such a position that he stared straight at\nthe illuminated crucifix across the path, and but little farther in.\n\n\"Lor', blimey, Joe,\" he said, \"I'm blasted drunk, I am! Thought I was in\nold Wipers, I did, and see one of them blessed cru-crushifixes!\"\n\nThe other, rather less away, pulled at his arm. \"So yer did, ole pal,\" he\nsaid. \"It's there now. This 'ere's some Cartholic place or other. Come\n_hon_.\"\n\n\"Strike me dead, so it is, Joe, large as life! Christ! oo'd 'ave thought\nit? A bloody cru-cru-chifix! Wat's old England comin' to, Joe?\" And with\ndrunken solemnity he began to make a sign of the cross, as he had seen it\ndone in Belgium.\n\nThe other, in the half-light, plainly started. \"Shut your bloody jaw,\n'Enery,\" he said, \"It's bad luck to swear near a cruchifix. I saw three\nchaps blotted out clean next second for it, back behind Lar Basay. Come\non, will yer? We carn't stay 'ere all the blasted night.\"\n\n\"You are down on a chap, you are,\" said the other. \"_Hi_ don't mean no\n'arm. '_E_ ought to know that, any'ow.\" He got unsteadily to his feet.\n\"'E died to save us, 'E did. I 'eard a Y.M.C.A. bloke say them very\nwords, 'E died on the cru-cru-chifix to save us.\"\n\n\"'Ere, cheese it, you fool! We'll have somebody out next. Come away with\nyer. I've got some Bass in my place, if we git there.\"\n\nAt this the other consented to come. Together they staggered out, not\nseeing Sir Robert, and went off down the street, \"'Enery\" talking as they\nwent. The General stood and listened as the man's voice died down.\n\n\"Good for yer, old pal. But 'E died to save us _hall_, 'E did. Made a\nbloomer of it, I reckon. Didn't save us from the bloody trenches--not as\nI can see, any'ow. If that chap could 'ave told us 'ow to get saved from\nthe blasted rats an' bugs an'....\"\n\nSir Robert pulled himself together and walked away sharply. By the\ncathedral the carven Christ hung on in the wan yellow light, very still.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nPeter lay on a home-made bed between the blankets and contemplated the\nceiling while he smoked his first cigarette. He had been a fortnight at\nRouen, and he was beginning to feel an old soldier--that is to say, he\nwas learning not to worry too much about outside things, and not to show\nhe worried particularly about the interior. He was learning to stand\naround and smoke endless cigarettes; to stroll in to breakfast and out\nagain, look over a paper, sniff the air, write a letter, read another\npaper, wander round the camp, talk a lot of rubbish and listen to more,\nand so do a morning's work. Occasionally he took a service, but his real\njob was, as mess secretary, to despatch the man to town for the shopping\nand afterwards go and settle the bills. Just at present he was wondering\nsleepily whether to continue ordering fish from the big merchants, Biais\nFrères et Cie, or to go down to the market and choose it for himself. It\nwas a very knotty problem, because solving it in the latter way meant\ngetting up at once. And his batman had not yet brought his tea.\n\nThere came a knock at the door, and the tea came in. With it was a folded\nnote. \"Came last night, sir, but you was out,\" said the man. He collected\nhis master's tunic and boots, and departed.\n\nPeter opened the note and swore definitely and unclerically when he had\nread it. It was from some unknown person, who signed himself as Acting\nAssistant Chaplain-General, to the effect that he was to be moved to\nanother base, and that as the A.C.G. was temporarily on leave, he had\nbetter apply to the Colonel of his own group for the necessary movement\norder. On the whole this was unintelligible to Peter, but he was already\nlearning that there was no need to worry about that, for somebody would\nbe able to read the riddle. What annoyed him was the fact that he had got\nto move just as he was settling down. It was certainly a matter for\nanother cigarette, and as he lit it he perceived one gleam of sunshine:\nhe need worry no more about the fish.\n\nPeter waited till Harold had finished his breakfast before he imparted\nthe news to the world a couple of hours or so later. \"I say, skipper,\" he\nsaid, \"I've got to quit.\"\n\n\"What, padre? Oh, hang it all, no, man! You've only just taken on the\nmess secretary's job, and you aren't doing it any too badly either. You\ncan't go, old dear.\"\n\n\"I must. Some blighter's written from the A.C.G.'s office, and I've got\nto get a movement order from the Colonel of the group, whatever that\nmeans. But I suppose you can put me straight about that, anyway.\"\n\n\"Sure thing. Come up to the orderly-room 'bout eleven, and you can fill\nup the chit and I'll fire it in for you. It's only a matter of form. It\ngoes through to Colonel Lear at La Croisset. Where to?\"\n\nPeter told him moodily.\n\n\"Eh?\" said Harold. \"Well, you can cheer up about that. Havre's not at all\na bad place. There are some decent shows about there and some very decent\npeople. What you got to do?\"\n\n\"I don't know; I suppose I shall find out when I get there. But I don't\ncare what it's like. It's vile having to leave just now, when I'm getting\nstraight. And what'll you do for a four at bridge?\"\n\nHarold got up and fumbled in his pockets. As usual, there was nothing\nthere. \"Why that damned batman of mine won't put my case in my pocket I\ncan't think,\" he said. \"I'll have to fire the blighter, though he is T.T.\nand used to be a P. and O. steward. Give me a fag, somebody. Thanks.\nWell, padre, it's no use grousing. It's a beastly old war, and you're in\nthe blinkin' British Army, me lad. Drop in at eleven, then. Cheerio till\nthen.\"\n\nAt eleven Peter found Harold signing papers. He glanced up. \"Oh,\nsergeant,\" he said, \"give Captain Graham a Movement Order Application\nForm, will you? Sit down, padre; there's a pen there.\"\n\nPeter wrestled with the form, which looked quite pretty when it was done.\nHarold endorsed it. \"Fire this through to the orderly-room, 10th Group,\nsergeant,\" he said, and rose wearily. \"Come along, padre,\" he said: \"I've\ngot to go round the camp, and you can come too, if you've nothing better\nto do.\"\n\n\"When'll I have to go, do you think?\" asked Peter as they went out.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know. In a day or two. You'll have to hang about, for the\norder may come any time, and I don't know how or when they'll send you.\"\n\nPeter did hang about, for ten days, with his kit packed. His recently\nacquired calm forsook him about the sixth day, and on the tenth he was\nentirely mutinous. At lunch he voiced his grievances to the general mess.\n\n\"Look here, you men,\" he said, \"I'm fed up to the back teeth. I've hung\nround this blessed camp for more than a week waiting for that infernal\nmovement order, and I'm hanged if I'm going to stay in any more. It's a\ntopping afternoon. Who'll come down the river to La Bouille, or whatever\nit is called?\"\n\nHarold volunteered. \"That's a good line, padre. I want to go there\nmyself. Are the boats running now?\"\n\n\"Saw 'em yesterday,\" volunteered somebody, and it was settled.\n\nThe two of them spent a decent afternoon on the river, and at Harold's\ninsistence went on back right up to town. They dined and went to a\ncinema, and got back to camp about midnight. Graham struck a match and\nlooked at the board in the anteroom. \"May as well see if there is\nanything for me,\" he said. There was, of course. He tore the envelope\nopen. \"Good Lord, skipper!\" he said. \"Here's my blessed movement order,\nto report at the Gare du Vert at eight p.m. this very day. I'm only four\nhours too late. What the dickens shall I do?\"\n\nHarold whistled. \"Show it me,\" he said. \"'The following personnel to\nreport at Gare du Vert ... at 8 p.m. 28th inst'\" he read. \"You're for it,\nold bird,\" he continued cheerfully. \"But what rot! Look here, it was\nhanded in to my orderly-room at six-thirty. You'd have hardly had time to\nget there at any rate.\"\n\nGraham looked over his shoulder. \"That's so,\" he said. \"But what'll I do\nnow?\"\n\n\"Haven't a notion,\" said the other, \"except that they'll let you know\nquick enough. Don't worry--that's the main thing. If they choke you off,\ntell 'em it came too late to get to the station.\"\n\nPeter meditated this in silence, and in some dismay. He saw visions of\ncourts-martial, furious strafing, and unholy terrors. He was to be\nforgiven, for he was new to comic opera; and besides, when a page of\n_Punch_ falls to one in real life, one hardly realises it till too late.\nBut it was plain that nothing could be done that night, and he went to\nbed with what consolation he could derive from the cheerful Harold.\n\nNext morning his breakfast was hardly over when an orderly came in.\nHarold had been earlier than usual, and had finished and gone out.\n\"Captain Graham, sir?\" queried the man. \"Captain Harold's compliments,\nand a telephone message has just come in that you are to report to H.Q.\n10th Group as quickly as possible.\"\n\nPeter brushed himself up, and outwardly cheerful but inwardly quaking,\nset off. Half an hour's walk brought him to the place, a little office\nnear a wharf in a tangle of trolley lines. He knocked, went in, came to\nattention, and saluted.\n\nColonel Lear was a short, red-faced, boorish fellow, and his Adjutant sat\nbeside him at the desk, for the Colonel was not particularly well up in\nhis job. The Adjutant was tall, slightly bald, and fat-faced, and he\nleaned back throughout the interview with an air of sneering boredom,\nonly vouchsafing laconic replies to his superior's occasional questions.\nPeter didn't know which he hated the more; but he concluded that whereas\nhe would like to cut the Colonel in Regent Street, he would enjoy\nshooting the Adjutant.\n\n\"Ah!\" said the Colonel. \"Are you Captain Graham? Well, sir, what's the\nmeaning of this? You applied for a movement order, and one was sent you,\nand you did not report at the station. You damned padres think you can do\nany bally thing you choose! Out here for a picnic, I suppose. What is the\nmeaning of it?\"\n\n\"Well, sir,\" said Peter, \"I waited ten days for the order and it did not\ncome. At last I went out for the afternoon, and got back too late to\nexecute it. I'm very sorry, but can't I go to-day instead?\"\n\n\"Good God, sir! do you think the whole British Army is arranged for your\nbenefit? Do you think nobody has anything else to do except to arrange\nthings to suit your convenience? We haven't got troopers with Pullman\ncars every day for the advantage of you chaplains, though I suppose you\nthink we ought to have. Supposing you did have to wait, what about it?\nWhat else have you to do? You'd have waited fast enough if it was an\norder to go on leave; that's about all you parsons think about. _I_ don't\nknow what you can do. What had he better do, Mallony?\"\n\nThe Adjutant leaned forward leisurely, surveying Peter coolly.\n\n\"Probably he'd better report to the R.T.O., sir,\" he said.\n\n\"Oh, very well. It won't be any good, though. Go up to the R.T.O. and ask\nhim what you can do. Here's the order.\" (He threw it across the table,\nand Peter picked it up, noting miserably the blue legend, \"Failed to\nReport--R.T.O., Gare du Vert.\") \"But don't apply to this office again.\nHaven't you got a blessed department to do your own damned dirty work?\"\n\n\"The A.C.G.'s away, sir,\" said Peter.\n\n\"On leave, I suppose. Wish to God I were a padre, eh, Mallony? Always on\nleave or in Paris, and doin' nothing in between.... Got those returns,\nsergeant?... What in hell are you waiting for, padre?\"\n\nFor the first time in his life Peter had an idea of what seeing red\nreally means. But he mastered it by an effort, saluted without a word,\nand passed out.\n\nIn a confused whirl he set off for the R.T.O., and with a sinking heart\nreached the station, crowded with French peasantry, who had apparently\ncome for the day to wait for the train. Big notices made it impossible to\nmiss the Railway Transport Officer. He passed down a passage and into an\noffice. He loathed and hated the whole wide world as he went in.\n\nA young man, smoking a cigarette and reading a magazine, glanced\nup at him. Peter observed in time that he had two stars only on his\nshoulder-strap. Before he could speak, the other said cheerily: \"Well,\npadre, and what can I do for you?\"\n\nPeter deprecatingly told him. He had waited ten days, etc., and had at\nlast gone out, and the movement order had come with...\n\nThe other cut him short: \"Oh, you're the chap who failed to report, are\nyou? Blighted rotters they are at these Group H.Q.'s. Chuck us over the\nchit.\"\n\nPeter brightened up and obeyed. The other read it. \"I know,\" ventured\nPeter, \"but I got the dickens of a strafe from the Colonel. He said he\nhad no idea when I could get away, and had better see you. What can I\ndo?\"\n\n\"Silly old ass! You'd better go to-night. There are plenty of trains,\nand you're all alone, aren't you? I might just alter the date, but I\nsuppose now you had better go to his nibs the Deputy Assistant Officer\ncontrolling Transport. He's in the Rue de la Republique, No. 153; you can\nfind it easily enough. Tell him I sent you. He'll probably make you out\na new order.\"\n\nPeter felt enormously relieved. He relaxed, smiled, and got out a\ncigarette, offering the other one. \"Beastly lot of fuss they make\nover nothing, these chaps,\" he said.\n\n\"I know,\" said the R.T.O.; \"but they're paid for it, my boy, and probably\nyour old dear had been strafed himself this morning. Well, cheerio; see\nyou again to-night. Come in time, and I'll get you a decent place.\"\n\nThe great man's office was up two flights of wooden stairs in what looked\nlike a deserted house. But Peter mounted them with an easy mind. He had\nforgiven Lear, and the world smiled. He still didn't realise he was\nacting in _Punch_.\n\nOutside a suitably labelled door he stood a moment, listening to a\nwell-bred voice drawling out sarcastic orders to some unfortunate. Then,\nwith a smile he entered. A Major looked up at him, and heard his story\nwithout a word. Peter got less buoyant as he proceeded, and towards the\nend he was rather lame. A silence followed. The great man scrutinised\nthe order. \"Where were you?\" he demanded at last, abruptly.\n\nIt was an awkward question. Peter hedged. \"The O.C. of my camp asked me\nto go out with him,\" he said at last, feebly.\n\nThe other picked up a blue pencil and scrawled further on the order.\n\"We've had too much of this lately,\" he said icily. \"Officers appear to\nthink they can travel when and how they please. You will report to the\nD.A.Q.M.G. at Headquarters, 3rd Echelon.\" He handed the folded order\nback, and the miserable Peter had a notion that he meant to add: \"And\nGod have mercy on your soul.\"\n\nHe ventured a futile remonstrance. \"The R.T.O. said you could perhaps\nalter the date.\"\n\nThe Major leaned back and regarded him in silence as a remarkable\nphenomenon such as had not previously come his way. Then he sighed,\nand picked up a pen. \"Good-morning,\" he said.\n\nPeter, in the street, contemplated many things, including suicide. If\nColonel Chichester had been in Rouen he would have gone there; as it was,\nhe did not dare to face that unknown any more than this other. In the end\nhe set out slowly for H.Q., was saluted by the sentry under the flag,\nclimbed up to a corridor with many strangely labelled doors, and finally\nentered the right one, to find himself in a big room in which half a\ndozen men in uniform were engaged at as many desks with orderlies moving\nbetween them. A kind of counter barred his farther passage. He stood at\nit forlornly for a few minutes.\n\nAt last an orderly came to him, and he shortly explained his presence and\nhanded in the much-blued order. The man listened in silence, asked him to\nwait a moment, and departed. Peter leaned on the counter and tried to\nlook indifferent. With a detached air he studied the Kirschner girls on\nthe walls. These added a certain air to the otherwise forlorn place, but\nwhen, a little later, W.A.A.C.'s were installed, a paternal Government\nordered their removal. But that then mattered no longer to Peter.\n\nAt the last the orderly came back. \"Will you please follow me, sir?\" he\nsaid.\n\nPeter was led round the barrier like a sheep to execution, and in\nat a small door. He espied a General Officer at a desk by the window,\ntelephone receiver in one hand, the fateful order in the other. He\nsaluted. The other nodded. Peter waited.\n\n\"Ah, yes! D.A.Q.M.G. speaking. That 10th Group Headquarters? Oh yes;\ngood-morning, Mallony. About Captain Graham's movement order. When was\nthis order applied for at your end?... What? Eighteenth? Humph! What time\ndid your office receive it?... Eh? Ten a.m.? Then, sir, I should like to\nknow what it was doing in your office till six p.m. This officer did not\nreceive it till six-thirty. What? He was out? Yes, very likely, but it\nreached his mess at six-thirty: it is so endorsed.... Colonel Lear has\nhad the matter under consideration? Good. Kindly ask Colonel Lear to come\nto the telephone.\"\n\nHe leaned back, and glanced up at Graham, taking him in with a grave\nsmile. \"I understand you waited ten days for this, Captain Graham,\" he\nsaid. \"It's disgraceful that it should happen. I am glad to have had an\ninstance brought before me, as we have had too many cases of this sort of\nthing lately....\" He broke off. \"Yes? Colonel Lear? Ah, good-morning,\nColonel Lear. This case of the movement order of Captain Graham has just\nbeen brought to me. This officer was kept waiting ten days for his order,\nand then given an impossibly short time to report. Well, it won't do,\nColonel. There must be something very wrong in your orderly-room; kindly\nsee to it. Chaplains have other things to do than sit around in camps\nwaiting the convenience of Group Headquarters. The application for this\norder reached us on the 27th, and was sent off early next morning, in\nample time for the officer to travel. I am very displeased about it. You\nwill kindly apply at once for a fresh order, and see that it is in\nCaptain Graham's hands at least six hours before he must report. That\nis all. Good-morning.\"\n\nPeter could hardly believe his ears, but he could barely keep a straight\nface either. The D.A.Q.M.G. hung up the receiver and repeated the latter\npart of the message. Peter thanked him and departed, walking on air. A\nday later an orderly from the group informed him at 11 a.m. that the\norder had been applied for and might be expected that day, and at 1\no'clock he received it. Such is the humour of the high gods who control\nthe British Army. But he never saw Colonel Lear again, and was thankful.\n\nPeter reached his new base, then, early in March in a drizzle of rain. He\nwas told his camp and set off to find it, and for an hour walked through\nendless docks, over innumerable bridges, several of which, being open to\nadmit and let out ships, caused him pretty considerable delay. It was a\nstrange, new experience. The docks presented types of nearly every\nconceivable nationality and of every sort of shipping. French marines and\nseamen were, of course everywhere, but so were Chinese, South African\nnatives, Egyptians, Senegalese, types of all European nationalities,\na few of the first clean, efficient-looking Americans in tight-fitting\nuniforms, and individual officers of a score of regiments.\n\nThe old town ended in a row of high, disreputable-looking houses that\nwere, however, picturesque enough, and across the _pavé_ in front of them\ncommenced the docks. One walked in and out of harbours and waterways, the\nmain stretch of harbour opening up more and more on the right hand, and\nfinally showing two great encircling arms that nearly met, and the grey\nChannel beyond. Tossing at anchor outside were more than a dozen ships,\nwaiting for dark to attempt the crossing. As he went, a seaplane came\nhumming in from the mists, circled the old town, and took the harbour\nwater in a slither of foam. He had to wait while a big Argentine ship\nploughed slowly in up a narrow channel, and then, in the late afternoon,\ncrossed a narrow swing foot-bridge, and found himself on the main outer\nsea-wall.\n\nFollowing directions, he turned to the right and walked as if going out\nto the harbour mouth a mile or so ahead. It seemed impossible that his\ncamp should be here, for on the one hand he was close to the harbour, and\non the other, over a high wall and some buildings, was plainly to be\nespied the sea. A few hundred yards on, however, a crowd of Tommies were\nlined up and passing embarkation officers for a big trooper, and Peter\nconcluded that this was the leave boat by which he was to mark his camp\nacross the road and more or less beyond it.\n\nHe crossed a railway-line, went in at a gate, and was there.\n\nThe officers' quarters had a certain fascination. You stepped out of\nthe anteroom and found yourself on a raised concrete platform at the\nback of which washed the sea. Very extensive harbour works, half\ncompleted, ran farther out in a great semicircle across a wide space of\nleaden water, over which gulls were circling and crying; but the thin\nblack line of this wall hardly interrupted one's sense of looking\nstraight out to sea, and its wide mouth away on the right let in the\nreal invigorating, sea-smelling wind. The camp itself was a mere strip\nbetween the railway-line and the water, a camp of R.E.'s to which he was\nattached. He was also to work a hospital which was said to be close by.\n\nIt was pointed out to him later. The railway ran out all but to the\nharbour mouth, and there ended in a great covered, wide station. Above\nit, large and airy, with extensive verandahs parallel to the harbour,\nwas the old Customs, and it was this that had been transformed into a\nhospital. It was an admirable place. The Red Cross trains ran in below,\nand the men could be quickly swung up into the cool, clean wards above.\nThese, all on one level, had great glass doors giving access to the\nverandahs, and from the verandahs broad gangways could be placed, running\nmen, at high tide, on to the hospital ship alongside. The nurses'\nquarters were beyond, and their sitting-room was perched up, as it\nwere, sea on one side and harbour on the other.\n\nAt present, of course, Peter did not know all this. He was merely\nconducted by an orderly in the dusk to the anteroom of the mess, and\nwelcomed by the orderly-officer, who led him into a comfortable room\nalready lit, in a corner of which, near a stove, four officers sat at\ncards.\n\n\"Hearts three,\" said one as Peter came in.\n\n\"Pass me,\" said another, and it struck Peter that he knew the tone.\n\nThe four were fairly absorbed in their game, but the orderly officer led\nPeter towards the table. At that they looked up, and next minute one had\njumped up and was greeting him.\n\n\"By all that's wonderful! It's you again,\" he said.\n\n\"Donovan!\" exclaimed Peter, \"What: are you doing here?\"\n\nThe South African held out his hand. \"I've got attached to one of our\nnigger outfits,\" he said, \"just up the dock from here. But what are you\ndoing?\"\n\n\"Oh, I've been moved from Rouen,\" said Peter, \"and told to join up here.\nGot to look after the hospital and a few camps. And I was told,\" he\nadded, \"I'd live in this camp.\"\n\n\"Good enough,\" said Donovan. \"Let me introduce you. This is Lieutenant\nPennell, R.E.--Lieutenant Pennell, Captain Graham. This is a bird of your\nkidney, mess secretary and a great man, Padre Arnold, and this is one\nFerrars, Australian Infantry. He tried to stop a shell,\" went on Donovan\neasily, \"and is now recovering. The shock left him a little insane, or so\nhis best friends think; hence, as you may have heard, he has just gone\nthree hearts. And that's all anyone can do at present, padre, so have a\ncigarette and sit down. I hope you haven't changed your old habits, as\nyou are just in time for a sun-downer. Orderly!\"\n\nHe pulled up a large easy-chair, and Peter subsided into it with a\npleasant feeling of welcome. He remembered, now, having heard that\nDonovan was at Havre, but it was none the less a surprise to meet him.\n\nDonovan played a good hand when he liked, but when he was not meeting\nhis mettle, or perhaps when the conditions were not serious enough, he\nusually kept up a diverting, unorthodox run of talk the whole time. Peter\nlistened and took in his surroundings lazily. \"Come on,\" said his friend,\nplaying a queen. \"Shove on your king, Pennell; everyone knows you've got\nhim. What? Hiding the old gentleman, are you? Why, sure it's myself has\nhim all the time\"--gathering up the trick and leading the king. \"Perhaps\nsomebody's holding up the ace now....\" and so on.\n\nPennell played well too, but very differently. He was usually bored with\nhis luck or the circumstances, and until you got to know him you were\ninclined to think he was bored with you. He was a young-looking man of\nthirty-five, rather good-looking, an engineer in peace-time who had\nknocked about the world a good deal, but hardly gave you that impression.\nThe Australian played poorly. With curly dark hair and a perpetual pipe,\nhis face was almost sullen in repose, but it lit up eagerly enough at\nany chance excitement. Arnold was easily the eldest, a short man with\niron-grey hair and very kindly eyes, a man master of himself and his\ncircumstances. Peter watched him eagerly. He was likely to see a good\ndeal of him, he thought, and he was glad there would be a padre as well\nin camp.\n\nDonovan and Ferrars won the game and so the rubber easily, and the former\npushed his chair back from the table. \"That's enough for me, boys,\" he\nsaid. \"I must trek in a minute. Well, padre, and what do you think of the\nArmy now?\"\n\n\"Mixed biscuits rather,\" Peter said. \"But I had a rum experience getting\nhere. You wouldn't have thought it possible,\" and he related the story\nof the movement order. At the close, Pennell nodded gloomily. \"Pack of\nfools they are!\" he said. \"Hardly one of them knows his job. You can\nthank your lucky stars that the D.A.Q.M.G. had a down on that Colonel\nWhat's-his-name, or it would have taken you another month to get here,\nprobably--eh, Donovan?\"\n\n\"That's so, old dear,\" said that worthy, \"But I'm hanged if I'd have\ncared. Some place, Rouen. Better'n this hole.\"\n\n\"Well, at Rouen they said this was better,\" said Peter.\n\nArnold laughed. \"That's the way of the Army,\" he said. \"It's all much the\nsame, but you would have to go far to beat this camp.\"\n\nPennell agreed. \"You're right there, padre,\" he said. \"This is as neat a\nhole as I've struck. If you know the road,\" he went on to Peter, \"you can\nslip into town in twenty-five minutes or so, and we're much better placed\nthan most camps. There's no mud and cinders here, is there, Donovan? His\ncamp's built on cinders,\" he added.\n\n\"There are not,\" said that worthy, rising. \"And you're very convenient to\nthe hospital here, padre. You better get Arnold to show you round; he's a\ndog with the nurses.\"\n\n\"What about the acting matron, No. 1 Base?\" demanded Arnold. \"He has tea\nthere every Sunday,\" he explained to Peter, \"and he a married man, too.\"\n\n\"It's time I went,\" said Donovan, laughing; \"all the same, there's a\nconcert on Tuesday in next week, a good one, I believe, and I've promised\nto go and take some people. Who'll come? Pennell, will you?\"\n\n\"Not this child, thanks. Too many nurses, too much tea, and too much talk\nfor me. Now, if you would pick me out a pretty one and fix up a little\ndinner in town, I'm your man, old bean.\"\n\n\"Well, that might be managed. It's time we had a flutter of some sort.\nI'll see. What about you, Graham? You game to try the hospital? You'll\nhave to get to know the ropes of them all, you know.\"\n\n\"Yes, I'll come,\" said Peter--\"if I can, that is.\" He looked inquiringly\nat Arnold.\n\n\"Oh, your time is more or less your own,\" he replied--\"at least, it is\nour side of the house. Are you C.G. or P.C.?\"\n\n\"Good God, padre!\" said the Australian, getting up too, \"what in the\nworld do you mean?\"\n\n\"Chaplain-General's Department or Principal Chaplain's Department, Church\nof England or Nonconformist. And it's sixpence a swear in this mess.\"\nArnold held out a hand.\n\nDonovan caught his friend by the arm. \"Come on out of it,\" he said. \"You\nwon't get back in time if you don't. The padre's a good sort; you needn't\nmind him. So long everybody. Keep Tuesday clear, Graham. I'll call for\nyou.\"\n\n\"Well, I'd better fix you up, Graham,\" said Arnold. \"For my sins I'm mess\nsecretary, and as the president's out and likely to be, I'll find a place\nfor you.\"\n\nHe led Peter into the passage, and consulted a board on the wall. \"I'd\nlike to put you next me, but I can't,\" he said. \"Both sides occupied.\nWait a minute. No. 10 Pennell, and No. 11's free. How would you like\nthat? Pennell,\" he called through the open door, \"what's the next room to\nyours like? Light all right?\"\n\n\"Quite decent,\" said Pennell, coming to the door. \"Going to put him\nthere, padre? Let's go and see.\" Then the three went off together down\nthe passage.\n\nThe little room was bare, except for a table under the window, Arnold\nopened it, and Peter saw he looked out over the sea. Pennell switched on\nthe light and found it working correctly, and then sauntered across the\ncouple of yards or so of the cubicle's width to look at the remains of\nsome coloured pictures pasted on the wooden partition.\n\n\"Last man's made a little collection from _La Vie Parisienne_ for you,\npadre,\" he said, \"Not a very bright selection, either. You'll have to\ncover them up, or it'll never do to bring your A.C.G. or A.P.C., or\nwhatever he is, in here. What a life!\" he added, regarding them. \"They\nare a queer people, the French.... Well, is this going to do?\"\n\nGraham glanced at Arnold, \"Very well,\" he said, \"if it's all right for me\nto have it.\"\n\n\"Quite all right,\" said Arnold. \"Remember, Pennell is next door left, so\nkeep him in order. Next door right is the English Channel, more or less.\nNow, what about your traps?\"\n\n\"I left them outside the orderly-room,\" said Peter, \"except for some\nthat a porter was to bring up. Perhaps they'll be here by now. I've got\na stretcher and so on.\"\n\n\"I'll go and see,\" said Pennell, \"and I'll put my man on to get you\nstraight, as you haven't a batman yet.\" And he strolled off.\n\n\"Come to my room a minute,\" said Arnold, and Peter followed him.\n\nArnold's room was littered with stuff. The table was spread with mess\naccounts, and the corners of the little place were stacked up with a\ngramophone, hymn-books, lantern-slides, footballs, boxing-gloves, and\nsuch-like. The chairs were both littered, but Arnold cleared one by the\nsimple expedient of piling all its contents on the other, and motioned\nhis visitor to sit down. \"Have a pipe?\" he asked, holding out his pouch.\n\nPeter thanked him, filled and handed it back, then lit his pipe, and\nglanced curiously round the room as he drew on it. \"You're pretty full\nup,\" he said.\n\n\"Fairly,\" said the other. \"There's a Y.M.C.A. here, and I run it more or\nless, and Tommy likes variety. He's a fine chap, Tommy; don't you think\nso?\"\n\nPeter hesitated a second, and the other glanced at him shrewdly.\n\n\"Perhaps you haven't been out long enough,\" he said.\n\n\"Perhaps not,\" said Peter. \"Not but what I do like him. He's a cheerful\ncreature for all his grousing, and has sterling good stuff in him. But\nreligiously I don't get on far. To tell you the truth, I'm awfully\nworried about it.\"\n\nThe elder man nodded. \"I guess I know, lad,\" he said. \"See here. I'm\nPresbyterian and I reckon you are Anglican, but I expect we're up against\nmuch the same sort of thing. Don't worry too much. Do your job and talk\nstraight, and the men'll listen more than you think.\"\n\n\"But I don't think I know what to tell them,\" said Peter miserably, but\ndrawn out by the other.\n\nArnold smiled. \"The Prayer Book's not much use here, eh? But forgive me;\nI don't mean to be rude. I know what you mean. To tell you the truth, I\nthink this war is what we padres have been needing. It'll help us to find\nour feet. Only--this is honest--if you don't take care you may lose them.\nI have to keep a tight hold of that\"--and he laid his hand on a big\nBible--\"to mind my own.\"\n\nPeter did not reply for a minute. He could not talk easily to a stranger.\nBut at last he said: \"Yes; but it doesn't seem to me to fit the case. Men\nare different. Times are different. The New Testament people took certain\nthings for granted, and even if they disagreed, they always had a common\nbasis with the Apostles. Men out here seem to me to talk a different\nlanguage: you don't know where to begin. It seems to me that they have\nlong ago ceased to believe in the authority of anyone or anything in\nreligion, and now to-day they actually deny our very commonplaces. But\nI don't know how to put it,\" he added lamely.\n\nArnold puffed silently for a little. Then he took his pipe out of his\nmouth and regarded it critically. \"God's in the soul of every man still,\"\nhe said. \"They can still hear Him speak, and speak there. And so must we\ntoo, Graham.\"\n\nPeter said nothing. In a minute or so steps sounded in the passage, and\nArnold looked up quickly. \"Maybe,\" he said, \"our ordinary life prevented\nus hearing God very plainly ourselves, Graham, and maybe He has sent us\nhere for that purpose. I hope so. I've wondered lately if we haven't come\nto the kingdom for such a time as this.\"\n\nPennell pushed the door open, and looked in. \"You there, Graham?\" he\nasked. \"Oh, I thought I'd find him here, padre; his stuff's come.\"\n\nPeter got up. \"Excuse me, Arnold,\" he said; \"I must shake in. But I'm\njolly glad you said what you did, and I hope you'll say it again, and\nsome more.\"\n\nThe older man smiled an answer, and the door closed. Then he sighed a\nlittle, and stretched out his hand again for the Bible.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nThe great central ward at No. 1 Base Hospital looked as gay as possible.\nIn the centre a Guard's band sat among palms and ferns, and an\nextemporised stage, draped with flags, was behind, with wings constructed\nof Japanese-figured material. Pretty well all round were the beds,\nalthough many of them had been moved up into a central position, and\nthere was a space for chairs and forms. The green-room had to be outside\nthe ward, and the performers, therefore, came and went in the public\ngaze. But it was not a critical public, and the men, with a plenitude\nof cigarettes, did not object to pauses. On the whole, they were\nextraordinarily quiet and passive. Modern science has made the\nbattlefield a hell, but it has also made the base hospital something\napproaching a Paradise.\n\nThere were women in plenty. The staff had been augmented by visitors from\nmost of the other hospitals in the town, and there was a fair sprinkling\nof W.A.A.C.'s, Y.M.C.A. workers, and so on, in addition. Jack Donovan\nand Peter were a little late, and arrived at the time an exceedingly\npopular subaltern was holding the stage amid roars of laughter. They\nstood outside one of the many glass doors and peered in.\n\nOnce inside, one had to make one's way among beds and chairs, and the\nnature of things brought one into rather more than the usual share of\nlate-comers' scrutiny, but nothing could abash Donovan. He spotted at\nonce a handsome woman in nurse's indoor staff uniform, and made for her.\nShe, with two others, was sitting on an empty bed, and she promptly made\nroom for Donovan. Graham was introduced, and a quiet girl moved up a bit\nfor him to sit down; but there was not much room, and the girl would not\ntalk, so that he sat uncomfortably and looked about him, listening with\none ear to the fire of chaff on his right. Donovan was irrepressible. His\nlaugh and voice, and the fact that he was talking to a hospital\npersonage, attracted a certain amount of attention. Peter tried to smile,\nbut he felt out of it and observed. He stared up towards the band, which\nwas just striking up again.\n\nSuddenly he became conscious, as one will, that someone was particularly\nlooking at him. He glanced back over the chairs, and met a pair of eyes,\nroguish, laughing, and unquestionably fixed upon him. The moment he saw\nthem, their owner nodded and telegraphed an obvious invitation. Peter\nglanced at Donovan: he had not apparently seen. He looked back; the eyes\ncalled him again. He felt himself getting hot, for, despite the fact that\nhe had a kind of feeling that he had seen those eyes before, he was\nperfectly certain he did not know the girl. Perhaps she had made a\nmistake. He turned resolutely to his companion.\n\n\"Jolly good band, isn't it?\" he said.\n\n\"Yes,\" she replied.\n\n\"But I suppose at a hospital like this you're always hearing decent\nmusic?\" he ventured.\n\n\"Not so often,\" she said.\n\n\"This band is just back from touring the front, isn't it? My friend said\nsomething to that effect.\"\n\n\"I believe so,\" she said.\n\nPeter could have cursed her. It was impossible to get anything out of\nher, though why he had not a notion. The answer was really simple, for\nshe wanted to be next Donovan, and wasn't, and she was all the while\nscheming how to get there. But Peter did not tumble to that; he felt an\nass and very uncomfortable, and he broke into open revolt.\n\nHe looked steadily towards the chairs. The back of the girl who had\nlooked at him was towards him now, for she was talking sideways to\nsomebody; but he noted an empty chair just next her, and that her uniform\nwas not that of the nurses of this hospital. He felt confident that she\nwould look again, and he was not disappointed. Instantly he made up his\nmind, nodded, and reached for his cap. \"I see a girl I know over there,\"\nhe said to his neighbour. \"Excuse me, will you?\" Then he got up and\nwalked boldly over to the vacant chair. He was fast acclimatising to war\nconditions.\n\nHe sat down on that empty chair and met the girl's eyes fairly. She was\nentirely at her ease and laughing merrily. \"I've lost my bet,\" she said,\n\"and Tommy's won.\"\n\n\"And you've made me tell a thundering lie,\" he replied, laughing too,\n\"which you know is the first step towards losing one's soul. Therefore\nyou deserve your share in the loss.\"\n\n\"Why? What did you say?\" she demanded.\n\n\"I said I saw a girl I knew,\" he replied. \"But I haven't any idea who you\nare, though I can't help feeling I've seen you before.\"\n\nShe chuckled with amusement, and turned to her companion. \"He doesn't\nremember, Tommy,\" she said.\n\nThe second girl looked past her to Peter. \"I should think not,\" she said.\n\"Nobody would. But he'll probably say in two minutes that he does. You're\nperfectly shameless, Julie.\"\n\nJulie swung round to Peter. \"You're a beast, Tommy,\" she said over her\nshoulder, \"and I shan't speak to you again. You see,\" she went on to\nPeter, \"I could see you had struck a footling girl, and as I don't know a\nsingle decent boy here, I thought I'd presume on an acquaintance, and see\nif it wasn't a lucky one. We've got to know each other, you know. The\ngirl with me on the boat--oh, damn, I've told you!--and I am swearing,\nand you're a parson, but it can't be helped now--well, the girl told me\nwe should meet again, and that it was probably you who was mixed up with\nmy fate-line. What do you think of that?\"\n\nPeter had not an idea, really. He was going through the most amazing set\nof sensations. He felt heavy and dull, and as if he were utterly at a\nloss how to deal with a female of so obviously and totally different a\nkind from any he had met before; but, with it all, he was very conscious\nof being glad to be there. Underneath everything, too, he felt a bit of a\ndare-devil, which was a delightful experience for a London curate; and\nstill deeper, much more mysteriously and almost a little terrifyingly,\nsomething stranger still, that he had known this girl for ages, although\nhe had not seen her for a long time. \"I'm highly privileged, I'm sure,\"\nhe said, and could have kicked himself for a stupid ass.\n\n\"Oh Lord!\" said Julie, with a mock expression of horror; \"for goodness'\nsake don't talk like that. That's the worst of a parson: he can't forget\nthe drawing-room. At any rate, I'm not sure that _I'm_ highly fortunate,\nbut I thought I ought to give Fate a chance. Do you smoke?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Peter wonderingly.\n\n\"Then for goodness' sake smoke, and you'll feel better. No, I daren't\nhere, but I'm glad you are educated enough to ask me. Nurses aren't\nsupposed to smoke in public, you know, and I take it that even you have\nobserved that I'm a nurse.\"\n\nShe was quite right. Peter drew on his cigarette and felt more at\nease. \"Well, to be absolutely honest, I had,\" he said. \"And I observe,\nmoreover, that you are not wearing exactly an English nurse's uniform,\nand that you have what I might venture to call a zoological badge. I\ntherefore conclude that, like my friend Donovan, you hail from South\nAfrica. What hospital are you in?\"\n\n\"Quai de France,\" she said. \"Know it?\"\n\nPeter repressed a start. \"Quai de France?\" he queried. \"Where's that,\nnow?\"\n\nAt this moment a song started, but his companion dropped her voice to\nstage whisper and replied: \"End of the harbour, near where the leave-boat\nstarts. Know it now?\"\n\nHe nodded, but was saved a reply.\n\nShe looked away toward the platform, and he studied her face\nsurreptitiously. It seemed very young till you looked closely, especially\nat the eyes, and then you perceived something lurking there. She was\ntwenty-seven or twenty-eight, he concluded. She looked as if she knew the\nworld inside out, and as if there were something hidden below the gaiety.\nPeter felt curiously and intensely attracted. His shyness vanished. He\nhad, and had had, no intimations of the doings of Providence, and nobody\ncould possibly be more sceptical of fate-lines than he, but it dawned on\nhim as he stared at her that he would fathom that look somehow,\nsomewhere.\n\n\"I'm practically not made up at all,\" she whispered, without turning her\nhead, \"so for Heaven's sake don't say there's too much powder on my\nnose.\"\n\nPeter shook silently. \"No, but a faint trace on the right cheek,\" he\nwhispered back. She turned then and looked at him, and her eyes\nchallenged his. And yet it is to be supposed that Hilda knew nothing\nwhatever about it.\n\n\"'_Right on my mother's knee_....'\" sang the platform.\n\n\"'_Without a shirt, without a shirt_,'\" gagged Peter, _sotto voce_, and\nmarvelled at himself. But he felt that her smothered laughter amply\nrewarded him.\n\nThe song ceased in time, and the encore, which they both rigorously\ndemanded. And immediately she began again.\n\n\"I hope to goodness tea isn't far off,\" she said. \"By the way, you'll\nhave to take me to it, now, you know. We go out of that door, and up a\nflight of steps, and there's the matron's room on the top and a visitor's\nroom next to it, and tea'll be there. It will be a fiendish squash, and I\nwouldn't go if I hadn't you to get me tea and take me away afterwards as\nsoon as possible.\"\n\n\"I'm highly privileged, I'm sure,\" said Peter again, quite deliberately.\nShe laughed. \"You are,\" she said. \"Look how you're coming on! Ten minutes\nago you were a bored curate, and now you're--what are you?\"\n\nPeter hesitated perceptibly. He felt he might say many things. Then he\nsaid \"A trapped padre,\" and they both laughed.\n\n\"Thank goodness you're not sentimental, anyway,\" she said. \"Nor's your\nfriend; but the matron is. I know her sort. Look at them.\"\n\nPeter looked. Donovan appeared still entirely at his ease, but he was\nwatching Peter, who realised why he had been made to look. He brazened\nit out, smiled back at him, and turned perfectly deliberately to his\ncompanion.\n\n\"Julie,\" he said, \"don't look over there any more, for goodness' sake, or\nwe'll have Donovan here. And if he comes he'll sail in and take you to\ntea without a word. I know him. He's got an unfair advantage over me. I'm\njust waking up, and he's been awake for years. Please give me a chance.\"\n\nShe leaned, back and regarded him humorously. \"You're not doing so\nbadly,\" she said, \"I don't know that a man has ever called me 'Julie'\nbefore in the first quarter of an hour. Do you know that, Solomon?\"\n\n\"It's your fault, I've never been introduced, and I must call you\nsomething, so why not the name your friend called you? Julie's very\npretty and suits you. Somehow I couldn't call you 'Miss' anything, though\nit may be convenient to know the rest. Do you think you could call me the\nRev. Peter Graham?\"\n\n\"I couldn't,\" she confessed, slightly more solemnly. \"Queer, isn't it?\nBut don't, talk about it: it isn't lucky. I shall call you Solomon for\never now. And you can only call me Miss Gamelyn when you've got to. See?\"\n\n\"But why in the world 'Solomon'? It doesn't fit me a bit.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" she said, \"it does, but don't worry why. Perhaps because, as the\nold man said to the vicar when he heard of Solomon's wives, you are a\nhighly privileged Christian. You can't deny that, since you've said it\ntwice. Praises be, here is tea. Come on; come on, Tommy. Oh, Tommy, this\nis the Very Reverend Peter Graham. Mr. Graham, this is one Raynard,\ncommonly known as Tommy, my half-section, so try to be polite.\"\n\nThere was a general movement, and Peter shook hands as he got up. The\nother girl struck him at once as a good sort.\n\n\"You're booked to take us to tea, I suppose?\" she said. \"Julie's far more\npractical than you'd imagine, padre.\"\n\nThey left the row of chairs together, Julie well in front and apparently\nforgetful of their existence. As they came abreast of the empty bed,\nPeter noticed that the assistant matron had gone, and that Donovan was\ndrifting in the stream alongside her in front. But before they were out\nof the great ward, Julie and he were laughing together. Peter felt\nabsurdly hurt, and hated himself for feeling it. The other girl was\ntalking at his elbow, but he made ridiculous and commonplace replies and\nhardly noticed her. She broke off at last abruptly, and he roused himself\nto carry on. He caught her expression, and somehow or other it landed him\ndeeper in the business. He made a deliberate move.\n\n\"Where are you going after this?\" he asked.\n\n\"Down town to do some shopping; then I suppose home, unless a fit seizes\nJulie and we run a risk once more of being summarily repatriated.\"\n\nHe laughed. \"Does that often happen?\"\n\n\"Quite often. You see ours is an English hospital, though we are South\nAfricans attached to it. I think they're much more strict than Colonial\nhospitals. But they give us more latitude than the rest, at any rate.\nJulie had a fearful row once, and simply declared she would do some\nthings, and since then they turn a blind eye occasionally. But there are\nlimits, and one day she'll step over them--I know she will.\"\n\n\"Let's hope not,\" said Peter; \"but now let me get you some tea.\"\n\nThe little room was packed, but Peter got through somehow and made his\nway to a series of tables spread with cakes and sandwiches. He got a cup\nand seized a plate, and shouldered his way back. In the crush he saw only\nthe top of Miss Raynard's head, and made for that. \"Here you are,\" he\nsaid cheerfully, as he emerged. \"Have a sandwich?\"\n\n\"Thanks,\" she said as she took it; \"but why didn't you bring two cups?\"\n\n\"Why?\" he asked.\n\nShe nodded towards a corner and there was Julie, wedged in between\npeople, and refusing tea from a subaltern. \"She expects you to bring it,\"\nsaid Miss Raynard.\n\nPeter looked puzzled, \"Where's Donovan?\" he said. \"I thought she came in\nwith him.\"\n\nThe girl smiled. \"She did, but she arranged for you to bring her tea,\nwhoever Donovan is, and she'll wait for it. She's that sort. Besides, if\nDonovan was that officer with the matron, he's probably got other fish to\nfry.\"\n\nPeter waited for no more, but plunged into the press again. As he\nemerged, he crossed the track of his friend, who was steering about with\ncakes. \"Hullo, padre,\" that individual said; \"you're a smart one, you\nare. Let's take those girls out to dinner. They'll come all right.\"\n\nPeter mumbled something, and went on with his tea towards the corner. The\nother's readiness and effrontery staggered him, but he wasn't going to\ngive himself away.\n\n\"You're a brute!\" said Julie promptly. \"Where have you been?\"\n\n\"It's where have you been, you mean,\" retorted Peter. \"I thought I was to\ntake you in to tea. When last I saw you, you had Donovan in tow.\"\n\n\"And you had Tommy. Don't you like her?\"\n\n\"Awfully,\" said Peter; \"I think she wants something now. But do come\nacross to our side. Aren't you going soon?\"\n\n\"Yes, when we can get away. Remember, everyone is watching. You go on\nout, and we can meet you below.\"\n\n\"Right,\" said Peter; \"I'll collect Donovan.\"\n\nHe found him after a bit, and the two made their adieus and thanks.\n\nAs they went down the steps, Jack outlined the campaign. \"I just joked to\nher about dinner,\" he said, \"but I think they'll rise. If they do, we'll\ngo to Travalini's, if they dare. That girl of yours is up to anything:\nshe knows a thing or two. You've some nerve, old thing.\"\n\n\"Nothing to yours,\" retorted Graham, still not at all sure of himself.\n\"But, look here, what about Travalini's? I don't know that I care to go\nthere.\"\n\n\"Oh, it's all right, old dear. You haven't a vast collar on now, and you\nought to see life. I've seen scores of chaplains there, even old Arnold.\nI'll look after your morals. Come on; let's get out and across the road.\nWe shall see them coming down the steps.\"\n\nThe hospital fronted on to the sea and the promenade that once was so\nfashionable. The sun was setting, blood red, over the Channel, the ships\nat anchor looking dark by contrast. But there was still plenty of light,\nand Peter was inwardly conscious of his badges. Still, he told himself\nthat he was an ass, and the two of them sauntered slowly townwards.\n\nIn a few minutes Jack glanced back. \"They're coming,\" he said, and as the\ngirls crossed on to the pavement behind them, turned round. \"Good for\nyou,\" he said. \"You got out quicker than I thought you would. Shall we\ntram or walk?\"\n\n\"Walk, I think,\" said Julie; \"it's topping here by the sea. I want to get\na pair of shoes, and the shop's not too far. Besides, you can buy shoes\nby artificial light, which won't do for some things. Tommy bought a hat\nthe other night, and she nearly had a fit in the morning. She's keeping\nit for the next fancy-dress stunt.\"\n\nShe ran on, and, despite Peter, Donovan annexed her. They set off gaily\nahead, Julie's clear laugh coming back now and again. Peter felt\ndepressed and angry. He told himself he was being let in for something he\ndid not want, and he had not much to say. To make conversation, he asked\nabout South Africa.\n\nIt appeared the girls came from Natal. Miss Raynard was enthusiastic, and\nhe gathered they had been trained together in Pietermaritzburg, but lived\nsomewhere on the coast, where there was tennis all the year and moonlight\nbathing picnics in the season, and excellent river boating. He could not\ncatch the name, but it was not too far from Durban. He said, in the end,\nthat he had always wanted to visit South Africa, and should certainly\ncome to Natal....\n\nThey turned off the promenade into a boulevard lined with the usual\navenue of trees. It was dusk now, and looked darker by contrast with the\nstreet lamps. Small tram-cars rushed by now and again, with clanging\nbells and platforms crowded before and behind, and there were plenty of\npeople in the street, Julie turned abruptly.\n\n\"I say, Tommy,\" she said, \"Captain Donovan wants us to go out to\ndinner. What do you say? My shoes can wait, and we needn't be in till\neight-thirty. It's not more than six now. It will be a spree.\"\n\n\"I'm game; but where are we going?\"\n\n\"I suggest Travalini's, padre,\" said Donovan.\n\n\"Not for me;\" said Miss Raynard; \"it's too public and you seem to forget,\nCaptain' Donovan, that we are forbidden to dine with officers.\"\n\n\"Nobody is likely to give us away, Tommy,\" said Miss Gamelyn.\n\n\"I'm not going to take the risk in uniform. Let's go to a quiet hotel, or\nelse to some very French place. That would be fun.\"\n\n\"A jolly good idea,\" cried Donovan, \"and I know what will just fix us up.\nCome on.\"\n\nTommy smiled. \"Probably it _will_ fix us up. Tell us about it first.\"\n\n\"It's absolutely safe,\" Donovan protested. \"It's quite French, and we\nshall get one knife and fork each. There's a cinema on top, and billiards\nunderneath, and practically no officers go. A Belgian Captain I came out\nwith took me. He said you could 'eat well' there, and you can, for the\ncooking is a treat. I swear it's all right.\"\n\n\"Lead on,\" said Julie; \"we'll trust you,\" and she manoeuvred so that her\nhalf-section was left with Donovan.\n\nThe four walked briskly through the dusk. \"Don't you love France in the\nevening?\" demanded Julie.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Peter, but dubiously. \"I don't know it much yet,\" he added.\n\n\"Oh, I do. Even a girl can almost do what she likes out here. I've had\nsome awful fun in Havre. I think one ought to take one's pleasure when\none has the chance, don't you? But some of these girls give me the hump;\nthey're so narrow. They can't see you with a man without imagining all\nsorts of things, whereas I've had some rattling good pals among men out\nhere. Then they're so afraid of doing things--the girls, I mean. Do you\nknow I went to Paris when I came up here from Boulogne? Had absolutely\n_the_ time. Of course, nobody knows, so don't speak of it--except Tommy,\nof course.\"\n\n\"How did you do it?\" demanded Peter, amused.\n\n\"Well, you see, I and another girl, English, were sent over by Boulogne,\nas you know, because you saw us on the boat, and we were supposed to come\nstraight here. In the train we met a Canadian in the French Air Service,\nand he put us wise about changing, and so on. But it appeared you have\nto change at Amiens in the middle of the night, and he said the thing was\nto sleep in the train and go right on to Paris. Then you got twenty-four\nhours there, and left next day by the Havre express. The girl was\nhorribly scared, but I said we'd try it. Nothing happened at all. We had\na carriage to ourselves, and merely sat still at Amiens. When we got\nto Paris we simply walked out, bold as brass. I showed our tickets at\nHavre and told the French inspector we had overslept. He merely told us\nthe time to leave next day. We went to an hotel, and then strolled up the\nAvenue de l'Opera. And what do you think? Who should I see but an old dear\nof a General I knew out in South Africa who is in the French Red Cross.\nHe was simply delighted to see us. He motored us out to the Bois in the\nafternoon, dined us, and took us to the theatre--only, by Jove! I did\ncurse that other girl. She was in a ferment all the time. Next morning he\nhad a job on, but he sent a car for us with a subaltern to put us on the\ntrain, and we went to the R.T.O. this time. He couldn't do enough for us\nwhen he heard the name of General de Villiers and saw his card. We got\ninto Havre at midday, and nobody was a penny the wiser.\"\n\nPeter laughed. \"You were lucky,\" he said; \"perhaps you always are.\"\n\n\"No, I'm not,\" she said \"but I usually do what I want and get through\nwith it. Hullo, is this the place?\"\n\n\"I suppose so,\" said Peter. \"Now for it. Look as if you'd been going to\nsuch places all your life.\"\n\n\"I've probably been more often than you, anyhow, Solomon,\" said Julie,\nand she ran lightly up the steps.\n\nThey passed through swing-doors into a larger hall brilliantly lit and\nheavy with a mixed aroma of smoke and food. There was a sort of hum of\nsound going on all the time and Peter looked round wonderingly. He\nperceived immediately that there was an atmosphere about this French\nrestaurant unlike that of any he had been in before. He was, in truth,\nutterly bewildered by what he saw, but he made an effort not to show it.\nJulie, on the other hand, was fairly carried away. They seated themselves\nat a table for four near the end of the partition, and she led the party\nin gaiety. Donovan hardly took his eyes off her, and cut in with dry,\ndaring remarks with a natural case. Tommy played a good second to Julie,\nand if she had had any fears they were not visible now.\n\n\"What about an appetiser?\" demanded Donovan.\n\n\"Oh, rather! Mixed vermuth for me; but Tommy must have a very small one:\nshe gets drunk on nothing. Give me a cigarette now, padre; I'm dying to\nsmoke.\"\n\nPeter produced his case. \"Don't call him 'padre' here,\" said Donovan;\n\"you'll spoil his enjoyment.\"\n\n\"A cigarette, Solomon, then,\" whispered Julie, as the other turned to\nbeckon a _garçon_, flashing her eyes on him.\n\nPeter resisted no longer. \"Don't,\" he said. \"Call me anything but that.\"\nIt seemed to him that there was something inevitable in it all. He did\nnot formulate his sensations, but it was the lure of the contrast that\nwon him. Ever since he had landed in France he had, as it were, hung on\nto the old conventional position, and he had felt increasingly that it\nwas impossible to do so. True, there seemed little connection between a\ndinner with a couple of madcap girls in a French restaurant and religion,\nbut there was one. He had felt out of touch with men and life, and now a\nnew phase of it was offered him. He reached out for it eagerly.\n\nJulie leaned back and blew out a thin stream of smoke, her eyes daring\nhim, picking up the little glass as she did so.\n\n_\"Here's to the girl with the little grey shoes,\"_ she chanted merrily.\n\n\"Don't Julie, for Heaven's sake!\" pleaded Tommy. \"He'll be shocked.\"\n\n\"Oh, go on,\" said Peter; \"what is it?\"\n\n\"Captain Donovan will finish,\" laughed Julie.\n\n\"'Deed I can't, for I don't know it,\" he said. \"Let's have it, little\ngirl; I'm sure it's a sporting toast.\"\n\n\"_Who eats your grub and drinks your booze_,\" continued she.\n\n\"Shut up, Julie,\" said Tommy, leaning over as if to snatch her glass.\n\n\"_And then goes home to her mother to snooze_,\" called Julie\nbreathlessly, leaning back.\n\n\"_I don't think_,\" ejaculated Donovan.\n\nJulie tipped down the drink. \"You knew it all the time,\" she said. And\nthey all burst out laughing.\n\nPeter drank, and called for another, his eyes on Julie. He knew that he\ncould not sum her up, but he refused to believe that this was the secret\nbehind the eyes. She was too gay, too insolent. What Donovan thought he\ncould not say, but he almost hated him for the ease with which he kept\npace with their companions.\n\nThey ordered dinner, and the great dish of _hors d'oeuvres_ was brought\nround by a waiter who seemed to preside over it with a fatherly\nsolicitude. Julie picked up an olive in her fingers, and found it so good\nthat she grumbled at only having taken one.\n\n\"Have mine,\" said Donovan, shooting one on to her plate.\n\n\"Thanks,\" she said. \"Oh, heavens! I forgot that patch on my left\ncheek--or was it my right, Solomon? Let's see.\"\n\nShe dived into her pocket, and produced a tiny satin beaded box, \"Isn't\nit chic?\" she demanded, leaning over to show Donovan. \"I got it in the\nNouvelles Galeries the other day.\" She took off the lid, which revealed\nits reverse as a tiny mirror, and scrutinised herself, patting back a\nstray lock on her forehead.\n\n\"Oh, don't,\" said Donovan, and he slipped the hair out again with his\nfinger.\n\n\"Be quiet; but I'll concede that. This won't do, though.\" Out came a tiny\npowder-puff. \"How's that?\" she demanded, smiling up at him.\n\n\"Perfect,\" he said. \"But it's not fair to do that here.\"\n\n\"Wait for the taxi then,\" she said. \"Besides, it won't matter so much\nthen.\"\n\n\"What won't matter?\" demanded Peter.\n\n\"Solomon, dear, you're as innocent as a new-born babe. Isn't he?\" she\ndemanded of his friend.\n\nDonovan looked across at him. \"Still waters run deep,\" he said. \"I don't\nknow, but excuse me!\"\n\nHe had been sitting next Julie and opposite Miss Raynard, but he was now\non his feet and begging her to change places with him. She consented,\nlaughing, and did so, but Julie pretended to be furious.\n\n\"I won't have it. You're a perfect beast, Tommy. Captain Donovan, I'll\nnever come out with you again. Solomon, come and sit here, and you,\nTommy, go over there.\"\n\nPeter hadn't an idea why, but he too got up. Tommy protested. \"Look\nhere,\" she said, \"I came for dinner, not for a dance. Oh, look out,\nCaptain Graham; you'll upset the cutlets!\" Peter avoided the waiter by an\neffort, but came on round her to the other side.\n\n\"Get out of it, Tommy,\" said Julie, leaning over and pushing her. \"I will\nhave a man beside me, anyhow.\"\n\n\"I'd sooner be opposite,\" said Donovan. \"I can see you better, and you\ncan't make eyes at the Frenchman at the other table quite so well if I\nget my head in the way.\"\n\n\"Oh, but he's such a dear,\" said Julie. \"I'd love to flirt with him. Only\nI must say his hair is a bit greasy.\"\n\n\"You'll make his lady furious if you don't take care,\" said Donovan, \"and\nit's a shame to spoil her trade.\"\n\nPeter glanced across. A French officer, sitting opposite a painted girl,\nwas smiling at them. He looked at Julie; she was smiling back.\n\n\"Julie, don't for Heaven's sake,\" said her half-section. \"We shall have\nhim over here next, and you remember once before how awkward it was.\"\n\nJulie laughed. \"Give me another drink, then, Captain Donovan,\" she said,\n\"and I'll be good.\"\n\nDonovan filled up her glass. She raised it and challenged him. \"_Here's\nto we two in Blighty_,\" she began.\n\nMiss Raynard rose determinedly and interrupted her. \"Come on,\" she said;\n\"that's a bit too much, Julie. We must go, or we'll never get back, and\ndon't forget you've got to go on duty in the morning, my dear.\" She\npulled out a little watch. \"Good heavens!\" she cried. \"Do you know the\ntime? It's eight-twenty now. We ought to have been in by eight, and\neighty-thirty is the latest time that's safe. For any sake, come on.\"\n\nJulie for once agreed. \"Good Lord, yes,\" she said. \"We must have a taxi.\nCan we get one easily?\"\n\n\"Oh, I expect so,\" said Donovan. \"Settle up, Graham, will you? while I\nshepherd them out and get a car. Come on, and take care how you pass the\nFrenchman.\"\n\nIn a few minutes Peter joined them on the steps outside. The restaurant\nwas in the corner of a square which contained a small public garden, and\nthe three of them were waiting for him on the curb. A taxi stood by them.\nThe broad streets ran away to left and right, gay with lights and\npassers-by, and the dark trees stood out against a starry sky. A group of\nBritish officers went laughing by, and one of them recognised Donovan and\nhailed him. Two spahis crossed out of the shade into the light, their red\nand gold a picturesque splash of colour. Behind them glared the staring\npictures of the cinema show on a great hoarding by the wall.\n\n\"Come on, Graham,\" called Donovan, \"hop in.\"\n\nThe four packed in closely, Peter and Tommy opposite the other two, Julie\nfarthest from Peter. They started, and he caught her profile as the\nstreet lights shone in and out with the speed of their passing. She was\nsmoking, puffing quickly at her cigarette, and hardly silent a moment.\n\n\"It's been a perfect treat,\" she said. \"You're both dears, aren't they,\nTommy? You must come and have tea at the hospital any day: just walk in.\nMine's Ward 3. Come about four o'clock, and you'll find me any day this\nweek, Tommy's opposite. There's usually a crush at tea, but you must\ncome. By the way, where's your camp? Aren't you going heaps out of your\nway? Solomon, where do you live? Tell me.\"\n\nPeter grinned in the dark, and told her.\n\n\"Oh, you perfect beast!\" she said, \"Then you knew the Quai de France all\nthe time. Well, you're jolly near, anyway.\" \"Oh, Lord!\" she exclaimed\nsuddenly, \"you aren't the new padre?\"\n\n\"I am,\" said Peter.\n\n\"Good Lord! what a spree! Then you'll come in on duty. You can come in\nany hour of the day or night. Tommy, do you hear that? Solomon's our\nspiritual pastor. He's begun well, hasn't he?\"\n\nPeter was silent. It jarred him horribly. But just then the car slowed\ndown.\n\n\"What's up now?\" demanded Donovan.\n\n\"Only the sentry at the swing bridge,\" said Tommy. \"They stop all cars at\nnight. He's your side, dear; give him the glad eye.\"\n\nThe door opened, and a red-cap looked in. \"Hospital, corporal; it's all\nright,\" said Julie, beaming at him.\n\n\"Oh, all right, miss. Good-night,\" said the man, stepping back and\nsaluting in the light of the big electric standard at the bridgehead.\n\"Carry on, driver!\"\n\n\"We're just there,\" said Julie; \"I am sorry. It's been rippin'. Stop the\ncar, Solomon, somewhere near the leave-boat; it won't do to drive right\nup to the hospital; we might be spotted.\"\n\nPeter leaned out of the window on his side. The lights on the quay glowed\nsteadily across the dark water, and made golden flicking streaks upon it\nas the tide swelled slowly in. In the distance a great red eye flashed in\nand out solemnly, and on their side he could see the shaded lights of the\nhospital ship, getting ready for her night crossing. He judged it was\ntime, and told the man to stop.\n\n\"Where's my powder-puff?\" demanded Julie. \"I believe you've bagged it,\nCaptain Donovan. No, it's here. Skip out, Tommy. Is anyone about?\"\n\n\"No,\" said the girl from the step. \"But don't wait all night. We'd best\nrun for it.\"\n\n\"Well, good-night,\" said Julie. \"You have both been dears, but whether\nI'm steady enough to get in safely I don't know. Still, Tommy's a rock.\nSee you again soon. Good-bye-ee!\"\n\nShe leaned forward. \"_Now_, if you're good,\" she said to Donovan. He\nkissed her, laughing; and before he knew what she was doing, she reached\nover to Peter, kissed him twice on the lips, and leaped lightly out. \"Be\ngood,\" she said, \"and if you can't, be careful.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nFollowing a delay of some days, there had been a fairly heavy mail, and\nPeter took his letters to the little terrace by the sea outside the mess,\nand sat in the sun to read them. While he was so occupied Arnold appeared\nwith a pipe, but, seeing him engaged, went back for a novel and a\ndeck-chair. It was all very peaceful and still, and beyond occasional\nhammering from, the leisurely construction of the outer harbour wall and\nonce or twice the siren of a signalling steamer entering the docks, there\nwas nothing to disturb them at all. Perhaps half an hour passed, then\nPeter folded up some sheets, put them in his pocket, and walked moodily\nto the edge of the concrete, staring down, at the lazy slushing of the\ntide against: the wall below him.\n\nHe kicked a pebble discontentedly into the water, and turned to look, at\nArnold. The older man was stretched out: in his chair smoking a pipe and\nregarding him. A slow smile passed between them.\n\n\"No, hang it all,\" said Peter; \"there's nothing to smile about, Arnold,\nI've pretty well got to the end of my tether.\"\n\n\"Meaning what exactly?\" queried the other.\n\n\"Oh, well, you know enough already to guess the rest.... Look here,\nArnold, you and. I are fairly good pals now, I'd just like to tell you\nexactly what I feel.\"\n\n\"Sit down then, man, and get it out. There's a chair yonder, and you've\ngot the forenoon before ye. I'm a heretic and all that sort of thing, of\ncourse, but perhaps that'll make it easier. I take it it's a kind of\nheretic you're becoming yourself.\"\n\nPeter pulled up a chair and got out his own pipe. \"Arnold,\" he said, \"I'm\ntoo serious to joke, and I don't know that I'm even a Christian heretic.\nI don't know what I am and where I stand. I wish I did; I wish I even\nknew how much I disbelieved, for then I'd know what to do. But it's not\nthat my dogmas have been attacked and weakened. I've no new light on the\nApostles' Creed and no fresh doubts about it. I could still argue for the\nVirgin Birth of Christ and the Trinity, and so on. But it's worse than\nthat. I feel ...\" He broke off abruptly and pulled at his pipe. The other\nsaid nothing. They were friends enough by now to understand each other.\nIn a little while the younger man found the words he wanted.\n\n\"Look here, it's like this. I remember once, on the East Coast, coming\nacross a stone breakwater high and dry in a field half a mile from the\nsea. There was nothing the matter with the breakwater, and it served\nadmirably for certain purposes--a seat, for instance, or a shady place\nfor a picnic. But it was no longer of any vital use in the world, for the\nsea had receded and left it there. Now, that's just what I feel. I had a\nreligion; I suppose it had its weaknesses and its faults; but most of it\nwas good sound stone, and it certainly had served. But it serves no\nlonger, not because it's damaged, but because the need for it has changed\nits nature or is no longer there.\" He trailed off into silence and\nstopped.\n\nArnold stirred to get out his pouch. \"The sea is shifty, though,\" he\nsaid. \"If they keep the breakwater in decent repair, it'll come in handy\nagain.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" burst out Peter. \"But, of course, that's where illustrations are\nso little good: you can't press them. And in any case no engineer worth\nhis salt would sit down by his breakwater and smoke a pipe till the sea\ncame in handy again. His job is to go after it.\"\n\n\"True for ye, boy. But if the old plan was so good, why not go down to\nthe beach and get on with building operations of the same sort?\"\n\n\"Arnold,\" said Peter, \"you couldn't have put it better. That's exactly\nwhat I came here to do. I knew in London that the sea was receding to\nsome extent, and I thought that there was a jolly good chance to get up\nwith it again out here. But that leads straight to my second problem:\nI can't build on the old plan, and it doesn't seem any good. It's as\nif our engineer found quicksands that wouldn't hold his stone, and\ncross-currents that smashed up all his piles.... I mean, I thought I knew\nwhat would save souls. But I find that I can't because my methods are--I\ndon't know, faulty perhaps, out of date maybe possibly worse; and, what\nis more, the souls don't want my saving. The Lord knows they want\nsomething; I can see that fast enough, but what it is I don't know.\nHeavens! I remember preaching in the beginning of the war from the text\n'Jesus had compassion on the multitude.' Well I don't feel that He has\nchanged, and I'm quite sure He still has compassion, but the multitude\ndoesn't want it. I was wrong about the crowd. It's nothing like what I\nimagined. The crowd isn't interested in Jesus any more. It doesn't\nbelieve in Him. It's a different sort of crowd altogether from the one He\nled.\"\n\n\"I wonder,\" said Arnold.\n\nPeter moved impatiently. \"Well, I don't see how you can,\" he said. \"Do\nyou think Tommy worries about his sins? Are the men in our mess\nmiserable? Does the girl the good books talked about, who flirts and\nsmokes and drinks and laughs, sit down by night on the edge of her little\nwhite bed and feel a blank in her life? Does she, Arnold?\"\n\n\"I'm blest if I know; I haven't been there! You seem to know a precious\nlot about it,\" he added dryly.\n\n\"Oh, don't rag and don't be facetious. If you do, I shall clear. I'm\ntrying to talk sense, and at any rate it's what I feel. And I believe you\nknow I'm right too.\" Peter was plainly a bit annoyed.\n\nThe elder padre sat up straight at that, and his tone changed. He stared\nthoughtfully out to sea and did not smoke. But he did not speak all at\nonce. Peter glanced at him, and then lay back in his chair and waited.\n\nArnold spoke at last: possibly the harbour works inspired him. \"Look\nhere, boy,\" he said, \"let's get back to your illustration, which is no\nsuch a bad one. What do you suppose your engineer would do when he got\ndown to the new sea-beach and found the conditions you described? It\nwouldn't do much good if he sat down and cursed the blessed sea and the\nsands and the currents, would it? It would be mighty little use if he\nblamed his good stone and sound timber, useless though they appeared.\nI'm thinking he'd be no much of an engineer either if he chucked his\njob. What would he do, d'you think?\"\n\n\"Go on,\" said Peter, interested.\n\n\"Well,\" said the speaker in parables, \"unless I'm mighty mistaken, he'd\nget down first to studying the new conditions. He'd find they'd got laws\ngoverning them, same as the old--different laws maybe, but things you\ncould perhaps reckon with if you knew them. And when he knew them, I\nreckon he'd have a look at his timber and stone and iron, and get out\nplans. Maybe, these days, he'd help out with a few tons of reinforced\nconcrete, and get in a bit o' work with some high explosive. I'm no\nsaying. But if he came from north of the Tweed, my lad,\" he added, with a\ntwinkle in his eye and a touch of accent, \"I should be verra surprised\nif that foreshore hadn't a breakwater that would do its duty in none so\nlong a while.\"\n\n\"And if he came from south of the Tweed, and found himself in France?\"\nqueried Peter.\n\n\"I reckon he'd get down among the multitude and make a few inquiries,\"\nsaid Arnold, more gravely. \"I reckon he wouldn't be in too great a hurry,\nand he wouldn't believe all he saw and heard without chewing on it a bit,\nas our Yankee friends say. And he'd know well enough that there was\nnothing wrong with his Master, and no change in His compassion, only,\nmaybe, that he had perhaps misunderstood both a little.\"\n\nA big steamer hooted as she came up the river, and the echoes of the\nsiren died out slowly among the houses that climbed up the hill behind\nthem.\n\nThen Peter put his hand up and rested his head upon it, shading his face.\n\n\"That's difficult--and dangerous, Arnold\" he said.\n\n\"It is that, laddie,\" the other answered quickly. \"There was a time when\nI would have thought it too difficult and too dangerous for a boy of\nmine. But I've had a lesson or two to learn out here as well as other\nfolks. Up the line men have learnt not to hesitate at things because they\nare difficult and dangerous. And I'll tell you something else we've\nlearnt--that it is better for half a million to fail in the trying than\nfor the thing not to be tried at all.\"\n\n\"Arnold,\" said Peter, \"what about yourself? Do you mind my asking? Do you\nfeel this sort of thing at all, and, if so, what's your solution?\"\n\nThe padre from north of the Tweed knocked the ashes out of his pipe and\ngot up, \"Young man,\" he said, \"I don't mind your asking, but I'm getting\nold, and my answering wouldn't do either of us any good, if I have a\nsolution I don't suppose it would be yours. Besides, a man can't save his\nbrother, and not even a father can save his son .... I've nothing to tell\nye, except, maybe, this: don't fear and don't falter, and wherever you\nget to, remember that God is there. David is out of date these days,\nand very likely it wasn't David at all, but I don't know anything truer\nin the auld book than yon verse where it says: 'Though I go down into\nhell, Thou art there also.'\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon, padre,\" said a drawling voice behind them. \"I caught\na word just now which I understand no decent clergyman uses except in the\npulpit. If, therefore, you are preaching, I will at once and discreetly\nwithdraw, but if not, for his very morals' sake, I will withdraw your\ncongregation--that is, if he hasn't forgotten his engagement.\"\n\nGraham jumped up. \"Good Heavens, Pennell!\" he exclaimed, \"I'm blest if I\nhadn't.\" He pushed his arm out and glanced at his watch. \"Oh, there's\nplenty of time, anyway. I'm lunching with this blighter down town, padre,\nat some special restaurant of his,\" he explained, \"and I take it the sum\nand substance of his unseemly remarks are that he thinks we ought to get\na move on.\"\n\n\"Don't let me stand in the way of your youthful pleasures,\" said Arnold,\nsmiling; \"but take care of yourself, Graham. Eat and drink, for to-morrow\nyou die; but don't eat and drink too much in case you live to the day\nafter.\"\n\n\"I'll remember,\" said Peter, \"but I hope it won't be necessary. However,\nyou never know 'among the multitude,' do you?\" he added.\n\nArnold caught up the light chair and lunged out at him. \"Ye unseemly\ncreature,\" he shouted, \"get out of it and leave me in peace.\"\n\nPennell and Peter left the camp and crossed the swing bridge into the\nmaze of docks. Threading their way along as men who knew it thoroughly\nthey came at length to the main roadway, with its small, rather smelly\nshops, its narrow side-streets almost like Edinburgh closes, and its\nsuccession of sheds and offices between which one glimpsed the water.\nJust here, the war had made a difference. There was less pleasure traffic\nup Seine and along Channel, though the Southampton packet ran as\nregularly as if no submarine had ever been built. Peter liked Pennell.\nHe was an observant creature of considerable decencies, and a good\ncompanion. He professed some religion, and although it was neither\nprofound nor apparently particularly vital, it helped to link the two\nmen. As they went on, the shops grew a little better, but no restaurant\nwas visible that offered much expectation.\n\n\"Where in the world are you taking me?\" demanded Peter. \"I don't mind\nslums in the way of business, but I prefer not to go to lunch in them.\"\n\n\"Wait and see, my boy,\" returned his companion, \"and don't protest till\nit's called for. Even then wait a bit longer, and your sorrow shall be\nturned into joy--and that's Scripture. Great Scott! see what comes of\nfraternising with padres! _Now._\"\n\nSo saying he dived in to the right down a dark passage, into which the\namazed Peter followed him. He had already opened a door at the end of it\nby the time Peter got there, and was halfway up a flight of wood stairs\nthat curved up in front of them out of what was, obviously, a kitchen.\nA huge man turned his head as Peter came in, and surveyed him silently,\nhis hands dexterously shaking a frying-pan over a fire as he did so.\n\n\"Bon jour, monsieur,\" said Peter politely.\n\nMonsieur grunted, but not unpleasantly, and Peter gripped the banister\nand commenced to ascend. Half-way up he was nearly sent flying down\nagain. A rosy-cheeked girl, short and dark, with sparkling eyes, had\nthrust herself down between him and the rail from a little landing above,\nand was shouting:\n\n\"Une omelette aux champignons. Jambon. Pommes sautes, s'il vous plait.\"\n\nPeter recovered himself and smiled. \"Bon jour, mademoiselle,\" he said,\nthis time. In point of fact, he could say very little else.\n\n\"Bon jour, monsieur,\" said, the girl, and something else that he could\nnot catch, but by this time he had reached the top in time to witness a\nlittle 'business' there. A second girl, taller, older, slower, but\nequally smiling, was taking Pennell's cap and stick and gloves, making\nplay with her eyes the while. \"Merci, chérie,\" he heard his friend say\nand then, in a totally different voice: \"Ah! Bon jour Marie.\"\n\nA third girl was before them. In her presence the other two withdrew. She\nwas tall, plain, shrewd of face, with reddish hair, but she smiled even\nas the others. It was little more than a glance that Peter got, for she\ncalled an order (at which the first girl again disappeared down the\nstairs) greeted Pennell, replied to his question that there were two\nplaces, and was out of sight again in the room, seemingly all at once. He\ntoo, then, surrendered cap and stick, and followed his companion in.\n\nThere were no more than four tables in the little room--two for six, and\ntwo for four or five. Most were filled, but he and Pennell secured two\nseats with their backs to the wall opposite a couple of Australian\nofficers who had apparently just commenced. Peter's was by the window,\nand he glanced out to see the sunlit street below, the wide sparkling\nharbour, and right opposite the hospital he had now visited several times\nand his own camp near it. There was the new green of spring shoots in the\nwindow-boxes, snowy linen on the table, a cheerful hum of conversation\nabout him, and an oak-panelled wall behind that had seen the Revolution.\n\n\"Pennell,\" he said, \"you're a marvel. The place is perfect.\"\n\nBy the time they had finished Peter was feeling warmed and friendly, the\nAustralians had been joined to their company, and the four spent an idle\nafternoon cheerfully enough. There was nothing in strolling through the\nbusy streets, joking a little over very French picture post-cards,\nquizzing the passing girls, standing in a queue at Cox's, and finally\ndrawing a fiver in mixed French notes, or in wandering through a huge\nshop of many departments to buy some toilet necessities. But it was good\nfun. There was a comradeship, a youthfulness, carelessness, about it all\nthat gripped Peter. He let himself go, and when he did so he was a good\ncompanion.\n\nOne little incident in the Grand Magasin completed his abandonment to the\nday and the hour. They were ostensibly buying a shaving-stick, but at the\nmoment were cheerily wandering through the department devoted to\n_lingerie_. The attendant girls, entirely at ease, were trying to\npersuade the taller of the two Australians, whom his friend addressed\nas \"Alex,\" to buy a flimsy lace nightdress \"for his fiancée,\" readily\npointing out that he would find no difficulty in getting rid of it\nelsewhere if he had not got such a desirable possession, when Peter heard\nan exclamation behind him.\n\n\"Hullo!\" said a girl's voice; \"fancy finding you here!\" He turned quickly\nand blushed. Julie laughed merrily.\n\n\"Caught out,\" she said, \"Tell me what you're buying, and for whom. A\nblouse, a camisole, or worse?\"\n\n\"I'm not buying,\" said Peter, recovering his ease. \"We're just strolling\nround, and that girl insists that my friend the Australian yonder should\nbuy a nightie for his fiancée. He says he hasn't one, so she is\npersuading him that he can easily pick one up. What do you think?\"\n\nShe glanced over at the little group. \"Easier than some people I know,\nI should think,\" she said, smiling, taking in his six feet of bronzed\nmanhood. \"But it's no use your buying it. I wear pyjamas, silk, and I\nprefer Venns'.\"\n\n\"I'll remember,\" said Peter. \"By the way, I'm coming to tea again\nto-morrow.\"\n\n\"That will make three times this week,\" she said. \"But I suppose you\nwill go round the ward first.\" Then quickly, for Peter looked slightly\nunhappy: \"Next week I've a whole day off.\"\n\n\"No?\" he said eagerly \"Oh, do let's fix something up. Will you come out\nsomewhere?\"\n\nHer eyes roved across to Pennell, who was bearing down upon them. \"We'll\nfix it up to-morrow,\" she said. \"Bring Donovan, and I'll get Tommy. And\nnow introduce me nicely.\"\n\nHe did so, and she talked for a few minutes, and then went off to join\nsome friends, who had moved on to another department. \"By Jove,\" said\nPennell, \"that's some girl! I see now why you are so keen on the\nhospital, old dear. Wish I were a padre.\"\n\n\"I shall be padre in ...\" began Alex, but Peter cut him short.\n\n\"Oh, Lord,\" he said, \"I'm tired of that! Come on out of it, and let's get\na refresher somewhere. What's the club like here?\"\n\n\"Club's no good,\" said Pennell. \"Let's go to Travalini's and introduce\nthe padre. He's not been there yet.\"\n\n\"I thought everyone knew it,\" said the other Australian--rather\ncontemptuously, Peter thought. What with one thing and another, he felt\nsuddenly that he'd like to go. He remembered how nearly he had gone there\nin other company. \"Come on, then,\" he said, and led the way out.\n\nThere was nothing in Travalini's to distinguish it from many other such\nplaces--indeed, to distinguish it from the restaurant in which Peter,\nDonovan, and the girls had dined ten days or so before, except that it\nwas bigger, more garish, more expensive, and, consequently, more British\nin patronage. The restaurant was, however, separated more completely\nfrom the drinking-lounge, in which, among palms, a string-band played.\nThere was an hotel above besides, and that helped business, but one could\ncome and go innocently enough, for all that there was \"anything a\ngentleman wants,\" as the headwaiter, who talked English, called himself a\nBelgian, and had probably migrated from over the Rhine, said. Everybody,\nindeed, visited the place now and again. Peter and his friends went in\nbetween the evergreen shrubs in their pots, and through the great glass\nswing-door, with every assurance. The place seemed fairly full. There was\na subdued hum of talk and clink of glasses; waiters hurried to and fro;\nthe band was tuning up. British uniforms predominated, but there were\nmany foreign officers and a few civilians. There were perhaps a couple of\ndozen girls scattered about the place besides.\n\nThe friends found a corner with a big plush couch which took three of\nthem, and a chair for Alex. A waiter bustled up and they ordered drinks,\nwhich came on little saucers marked with the price. Peter lay back\nluxuriously.\n\n\"Chin-chin,\" said the other Australian, and the others responded.\n\n\"That's good,\" said Pennell.\n\n\"Not so many girls here this afternoon,\" remarked Alex carelessly. \"See,\nDick, there's that little Levantine with the thick dark hair. She's\ncaught somebody.\"\n\nPeter looked across in the direction indicated. The girl, in a cerise\ncostume with a big black hat, short skirt, and dainty bag, was sitting in\na chair halfway on to them and leaning over the table before her. As he\nwatched, she threw her head back and laughed softly. He caught the gleam\nof a white throat and of dark sloe eyes.\n\n\"She's a pretty one,\" said Pennell. \"God! but they're queer little bits\nof fluff, these girls. It beats me how they're always gay, and always\neasy to get and to leave. And they get rottenly treated sometimes.\"\n\n\"Yes I'm damned if I understand them,\" said Alex. \"Now, padre, I'll tell\nyou something that's more in your way than mine, and you can see what you\nmake of it. I was in a maison tolerée the other day--you know the sort\nof thing--and there were half a dozen of us in the sitting-room with the\ngirls, drinking fizz. I had a little bit of a thing with fair hair--she\ncouldn't have been more than seventeen at most, I reckon--with a laugh\nthat did you good to hear, and, by gum! we wanted to be cheered just\nthen, for we had had a bit of a gruelling on the Ancre and had been\npulled out of the line to refit. She sat there with an angel's face, a\nchemise transparent except where it was embroidered, and not much else,\nand some of the women were fair beasts. Well, she moved on my knee, and I\nspilt some champagne and swore--'Jesus Christ!' I said. Do you know, she\npushed back from me as if I had hit her! 'Oh, don't say His Name!' she\nsaid. 'Promise me you won't say it again. Do you not know how He loved\nus?' I was so taken aback that I promised, and to tell you the truth,\npadre, I haven't said it since. What do you think of that?\"\n\nPeter shook his head and drained his glass. He couldn't have spoken at\nonce; the little story, told in such a place, struck him so much. Then he\nasked: \"But is that all? How did she come to be there?\"\n\n\"Well,\" Alex said, \"that's just as strange. Father was in a French\ncavalry regiment, and got knocked out on the Marne. They lived in Arras\nbefore the war, and you can guess that there wasn't much left of the\nhome. One much older sister was a widow with a big family; the other was\na kid of ten or eleven, so this one went into the business to keep the\nfamily going. Fact. The mother used to come and see her, and I got to\nknow her. She didn't seem to mind: said the doctors looked after them\nwell, and the girl was making good money. Hullo!\" he broke off, \"there's\nLouise,\" and to Peter's horror he half-rose and smiled across at a girl\nsome few tables away.\n\nShe got up and came over, beamed on them all, and took the seat Alex\nvacated. \"Good-evening,\" she said, in fair English, scrutinising them.\n\"What is it you say, 'How's things'?\"\n\nAlex pressed a drink on her and beckoned the waiter. She took a syrup,\nthe rest martinis. Peter sipped his, and watched her talking to Alex and\nPennell. The other Australian got up and crossed the room, and sat down\nwith some other men.\n\nThe stories he had heard moved him profoundly. He wondered if they were\ntrue, but he seemed to see confirmation in the girl before him. Despite\nsome making up, it was a clean face, if one could say so. She was\nlaughing and talking with all the ease in the world, though Peter noticed\nthat her eyes kept straying round the room. Apparently his friends had\nall her attention, but he could see it was not so. She was on the watch\nfor clients, old or new. He thought how such a girl would have disgusted\nhim a few short weeks ago, but he did not feel disgusted now. He could\nnot. He did not know what he felt. He wondered, as he looked, if she were\none of \"the multitude,\" and then the fragment of a text slipped through\nhis brain: \"The Friend of publicans and sinners.\" \"_The_ Friend\": the\nlittle adjective struck him as never before. Had they ever had another?\nHe frowned to himself at the thought, and could not help wondering\nvaguely what his Vicar or the Canon would have done in Travalini's. Then\nhe wondered instantly what that Other would have done, and he found no\nanswer at all.\n\n\"Yes, but I do not know your friend yet,\" he heard the girl say, and saw\nshe was being introduced to Pennell. She held out a decently gloved hand\nwith a gesture that startled him--it was so like Hilda's. Hilda! The\ncomparison dazed him. He fancied he could see her utter disgust, and then\nhe involuntarily shook his head; it would be too great for him to\nimagine. What would she have made of the story he had just heard? He\nconcluded she would flatly disbelieve it....\n\nBut Julie? He smiled to himself, and then, for the first time, suddenly\nasked himself what he really felt towards Julie. He remembered that first\nnight and the kiss, and how he had half hated it, half liked it. He felt\nnow, chiefly, anger that Donovan had had one too. One? But he, Peter,\nhad had two.... Then he called himself a damned fool; it was all of a\npiece with her extravagant and utterly unconventional madness. But what,\nthen, would she say to this? Had she anything in common with it?\n\nHe played with that awhile, blowing out thoughtful rings of smoke. It\nstruck him that she had, but he was fully aware that that did not\ndisgust him in the least. It almost fascinated him, just as--that _was_\nit--Hilda's disgust would repel him. Why? He hadn't an idea.\n\n\"Monsieur le Capitaine is very dull,\" said a girl's voice at his elbow.\nHe started: Louise had moved to the sofa and was smiling at him. He\nglanced towards his companions, Alex was standing, finishing a last\ndrink; Pennell staring at Louise.\n\nHe looked back at the girl, straight into her eyes, and could not read\nthem in the least. The darkened eyebrows and the glitter in them baffled\nhim. But he must speak, \"Am I?\" he said. \"Forgive me, mademoiselle; I was\nthinking.\"\n\n\"Of your fiancée--is it not so? Ah! The Capitaine has his fiancée, then?\nIn England? Ah, well, the girls in England do not suffer like we girls in\nFrance.... They are proud, too, the English misses. I know, for I have\nbeen there, to--how do you call it?--Folkestone. They walk with the head\nin the air,\" and she tilted up her chin so comically that Peter smiled\ninvoluntarily.\n\n\"No, I do not like them,\" went on the girl deliberately. \"They are\nonly half alive, I think. I almost wish the Boche had been in your\nland.... They are cold, la! And not so very nice to kiss, eh?\"\n\n\"They're not all like that,\" said Pennell.\n\n\"Ah, non? But you like the girls of France the best, mon ami; is it not\nso?\" She leaned across towards him significantly.\n\nPennell laughed. \"_Now_, yes, perhaps,\" he said deliberately; \"but after\nthe war ...\" and he shrugged his shoulders, like a Frenchman.\n\nA shade passed over the girl's face, and she got up. \"It is so,\" she\nsaid lightly. \"Monsieur speaks very true--oh, very true! The girls of\nFrance now--they are gay, they are alive, they smile, and it is war, and\nyou men want these things. But after--oh, I know you English--you'll go\nhome and be--how do you say?--'respectable,' and marry an English miss,\nand have--oh! many, many bébés, and wear the top-hat, and go to church.\nThere is no country like England....\" She made a little gesture. \"What do\nyou believe, you English? In le bon Dieu? Non. In love? Ah, non! In what,\nthen? Je ne sais!\" She laughed again. \"What 'ave I said? Forgive me,\nmonsieur, and you also, Monsieur le Capitaine. But I do see a friend of\nmine. See, I go! Bon soir.\"\n\nShe looked deliberately at Peter a moment, then smiled comprehensively\nand left them. Peter saw that Alex had gone already; he asked no\nquestions, but looked at Pennell inquiringly.\n\n\"I think so, padre; I've had enough of it to-night. Let's clear. We can\nget back in time for mess.\"\n\nThey went out into the darkening streets, crossed an open square, and\nturned down a busy road to the docks. They walked quickly, but Peter\nseemed to himself conscious of everyone that passed. He scanned faces,\nas if to read a riddle in them. There were men who lounged by, gay,\nreckless, out for fun plainly, but without any other sinister thought,\napparently. There were Tommies who saluted and trudged on heavily. There\nwere a couple of Yorkshire boys who did not notice them, flushed, animal,\nmaking determinedly for a destination down the street. There was one man\nat least who passed walking alone, with a tense, greedy, hard face, and\nPeter all but shuddered.\n\nThe lit shops gave way to a railed space, dark by contrast, and a tall\nbuilding of old blackened stone, here and there chipped white, loomed up.\nMoved by an impulse, Peter paused, \"Let's see if it's open, Pennell,\" he\nsaid. \"Do you mind? I won't be a second.\"\n\n\"Not a scrap, old man,\" said Pennell, \"I'll come in too.\"\n\nPeter walked up to a padded leather-covered door and pushed. It swung\nopen. They stepped in, into a faintly broken silence, and stood still.\n\nObjects loomed up indistinctly--great columns, altars, pews. Far away a\nlight flickered and twinkled, and from the top of the aisle across the\nchurch from the door by which they had entered a radiance glowed and lost\nitself in the black spaces of the high roof and wide nave. Peter crossed\ntowards that side, and his companion followed. They trod softly, like\ngood Englishmen in church, and they moved up the aisle a little to see\nmore clearly; and so, having reached a place from which much was visible,\nremained standing for a few seconds.\n\nThe light streamed from an altar, and from candles above it set around\na figure of the Mother of God. In front knelt a priest, and behind him,\nstraggling back in the pews, a score or so of women, some children, and\na blue-coated French soldier or two. The priest's voice sounded thin\nand low: neither could hear what he said; the congregation made rapid\nresponses regularly, but eliding the, to them, familiar words. There was,\nthen, the murmur of repeated prayer, like muffled knocking on a door, and\nnothing more.\n\n\"Let's go,\" whispered Pennell at last.\n\nThey went out, and shut the door softly behind them. As they did so, some\nother door was opened noisily and banged, while footsteps began to drag\nslowly across the stone floor and up the aisle they had come down. The\nnew-comer subsided into a pew with a clatter on the boards, but the\nmurmured prayers went on unbroken.\n\nOutside the street engulfed them. The same faces passed by. A street-car\nbanged and clattered up towards the centre of the town, packed with\njovial people. Pennell looked towards it half longingly. \"Great Scott,\nGraham! I wish, now, we hadn't come away so soon,\" he said.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nThe lower valley of the Seine is one of the most beautiful and\ninteresting river-stretches in Northern Europe. It was the High Street of\nold Normandy, and feuda, barons and medieval monks have left their mark\nupon it. From the castle of Tancarville to the abbey of Jumièges\nyou can read the story of their doings; or when you stand in the Roman\ncircus at Lillebonne, or enter the ancient cloister of M. Maeterlinck's\nmodern residence at St. Wandrille, see plainly enough the writing of a\nstill older legend, such as appeared, once, on the wall of a palace in\nBabylon. On the left bank steep hills, originally wholly clothed with\nforest and still thickly wooded, run down to the river with few breaks\nin them, each break, however, being garrisoned by an ancient town. Of\nthese, Caudebec stands unrivalled. On the right bank the flat plain of\nNormandy stretches to the sky-line, pink-and-white in spring with miles\nof apple-orchards. The white clouds chase across its fair blue sky,\ndriven by the winds from the sea, and tall poplars rise in their uniform\nrows along the river as if to guard a Paradise.\n\nCaudebec can be reached from Le Havre in a few hours, and although cars\nfor hire and petrol were not abundant in France at the time, one could\nfind a chauffeur to make the journey if one was prepared to pay. Given\nfine weather, it was an ideal place for a day off in the spring. And\nPeter knew it.\n\nIn the Grand Magasin Julie had talked of a day off, and a party of four\nhad been mooted, but when he had leisure to think of it, Peter found\nhimself averse to four, and particularly if one of the four were to be\nDonovan. He admitted it freely to himself. Donovan was the kind of a\nman, he thought, that Julie must like, and he was the kind of man, too,\nto put him, Peter, into the shade. Ordinarily he asked for no better\ncompanion, but he hated to see Julie and Jack together. He could not make\nthe girl out, and he wanted to do so. He wanted to know what she thought\nabout many things, and--incidentally, of course--what she thought about\nhim.\n\nHe had argued all this over next morning while shaving, and had ended\nby cutting himself. It was a slight matter, but it argued a certain\nabsent-mindedness, and it brought him back to decency. He perceived that\nhe was scheming to leave his friend out, and he fought resolutely against\nthe idea. Therefore, that afternoon, he went to the hospital, spent a\ncouple of hours chatting with the men, and finally wound up in the\nnurses' mess-room for tea as usual. It was a little room, long and\nnarrow, at the end of the biggest ward, but its windows looked over the\nsea and it was convenient to the kitchen. Coloured illustrations cut from\nmagazines and neatly mounted on brown paper decorated the walls, but\nthere was little else by way of furniture or ornament except a long table\nand chairs. One could get but little talk except of a scrappy kind, for\nnurses came continually in and out for tea, and, indeed, Julie had only a\nquarter of an hour to spare. But he got things fixed up for the following\nThursday, and he left the place to settle with Donovan.\n\nThat gentleman's company of native labour was lodged a mile or so through\nthe docks from Peter's camp, on the banks of the Tancarville Canal. It\nwas enlivened at frequent intervals, day and night, by the sirens of\ntugs bringing strings of barges to the docks, whence their cargo was\nborne overseas in the sea-going tramps, or, of course, taking equally\nlong strings to the Seine for Rouen and Paris. It was mud and cinders\nunderfoot, and it was walled off with corrugated-iron sheeting and\nbarbed wire from the attentions of some hundreds of Belgian refugees who\nlived along the canal and parallel roads in every conceivable kind of\nresting-place, from ancient bathing-vans to broken-down railway-trucks.\nBut there were trees along the canal and reeds and grass, so that there\nwere worse places than Donovan's camp in Le Havre.\n\nPeter found his friend surveying the endeavours of a gang of boys to\nconstruct a raised causeway from the officers' mess to the orderly-room,\nand he promptly broached his object. Donovan was entranced with the\nproposal, but he could not go. He was adamant upon it. He could possibly\nhave got off, but it meant leaving his something camp for a whole day,\nand just at present he couldn't. Peter could get Pennell or anyone.\nAnother time, perhaps, but not now. For thus can the devil trap his\nvictims.\n\nPeter pushed back for home on his bicycle, but stopped at the docks on\nhis way to look up Pennell. That gentleman was bored, weary, and inclined\nto be blasphemous. It appeared that for the whole, infernal day he had\nhad to watch the off-loading of motor-spares, that he had had no lunch,\nand that he could not get away for a day next week if he tried. \"It isn't\neveryone can get a day off whenever he wants to, padre,\" he said. \"In the\nnext war I shall be ...\" Peter turned hard on his heel, and left him\ncomplaining to the derricks.\n\nHe was now all but cornered. There was nobody else he particularly cared\nto ask unless it were Arnold, and he could not imagine Arnold and Julie\ntogether. It appeared to him that fate was on his side; it only remained\nto persuade Julie to come alone. He pedalled back to mess and dinner, and\nthen, about half-past eight, strolled round to the hospital again. It was\nlate, of course, but he was a padre, and the hospital padre, and\nprivileged. He knew exactly what to do, and that he was really as safe as\nhouses in doing it, and yet this intriguing by night made him\nuncomfortable still. He told himself he was an ass to think so, but he\ncould not get rid of the sensation.\n\nJulie would be on duty till 9.30, and he could easily have a couple\nof minutes' conversation with her in the ward. He followed the\nrailway-track, then, along the harbour, and went in under the great roof\nof the empty station. On the far platform a hospital train was being made\nready for its return run, but, except for a few cleaners and orderlies,\nthe place was empty.\n\nAn iron stairway led up from the platform to the wards above. He\nascended, and found himself on a landing with the door of the theatre\nopen before him. There was a light in it, and he caught the sound of\nwater; some pro. was cleaning up. He moved down the passage and\ncautiously opened the door of the ward.\n\nIt was shaded and still. Somewhere a man breathed heavily, and another\nturned in his sleep. Just beyond the red glow of the stove, with the\nempty armchairs in a circle before it, were screens from which came a\nsubdued light. He walked softly between the beds towards them, and looked\nover the top.\n\nInside was a little sanctum: a desk with a shaded reading-lamp, a chair,\na couch, a little table with flowers upon it and a glass and jug, and on\nthe floor by the couch a work-basket. Julie was at the desk writing in a\nbig official book, and he watched her for a moment unobserved. It was\nalmost as if he saw a different person from the girl he knew. She was at\nwork, and a certain hidden sadness showed clearly in her face. But the\nlittle brown fringe of hair on her forehead and the dimpled chin were the\nsame....\n\n\"Good-evening,\" he whispered.\n\nShe looked up quickly, with a start, and he noticed curiously how rapidly\nthe laughter came back to her face. \"You did startle me, Solomon,\" she\nsaid. \"What is it?\"\n\n\"I want to speak to you a minute about Thursday,\" he said. \"Can I come\nin?\"\n\nShe got up and came round the screens. \"Follow me,\" she said, \"and don't\nmake a noise.\"\n\nShe led him across the ward to the wide verandah, opening the door\ncarefully and leaving it open behind her, and then walked to the\nbalustrade and glanced down. The hospital ship had gone, and there was\nno one visible on the wharf. The stars were hidden, and there was a\nsuggestion of mist on the harbour, through which the distant lights\nseemed to flicker.\n\n\"You're coming on, Solomon,\" she said mockingly. \"Never tell me you'd\nhave dared to call on the hospital to see a nurse by night a few weeks\nago! Suppose matron came round? There is no dangerous case in my ward.\"\n\n\"Not among the men, perhaps,\" said Peter mischievously. \"But, look here,\nabout Thursday; Donovan can't go, nor Pennell, and I don't know anyone\nelse I want to ask.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll see if I can raise a man. One or two of the doctors are\nfairly decent, or I can get a convalescent out of the officers'\nhospital.\"\n\nShe had the lights behind her, and he could not see her face, but he knew\nshe was laughing at him, and it spurred him on. \"Don't rag, Julie,\" he\nsaid, \"You know I want you to come alone.\"\n\nThere was a perceptible pause. Then: \"I can't cut Tommy,\" she said.\n\n\"Not for once?\" he urged. She turned away from him and looked down at the\nwater. It is curious how there come moments of apprehension in all our\nlives when we want a thing, but know quite well we are mad to want it.\nJulie looked into the future for a few seconds, and saw plainly, but\nwould not believe what she saw.\n\nWhen she turned back she had her old manner completely. \"You're a dear\nold thing,\" she said, \"and I'll do it. But if it gets out that I gadded\nabout for a day with an officer, even though he is a padre, and that we\nwent miles out of town, there'll be some row, my boy. Quick now! I must\nget back. What's the plan?\"\n\n\"Thanks awfully,\" said Peter. \"It will be a rag. What time can you get\noff?\"\n\n\"Oh, after breakfast easily--say eight-thirty.\"\n\n\"Right. Well, take the tram-car to Harfleur--you know?--as far as it\ngoes. I'll be at the terminus with a car. What time must you be in?\"\n\n\"I can get late leave till ten, I think,\" she said.\n\n\"Good! That gives us heaps of time. We'll lunch and tea in Caudebec, and\nhave some sandwiches for the road home.\"\n\n\"And if the car breaks down?\"\n\n\"It won't,\" said Peter. \"You're lucky in love, aren't you?\"\n\nShe did not laugh. \"I don't know,\" she said. \"Good-night.\"\n\nAnd then Peter had walked home, thinking of Hilda. And he had sat by the\nsea, and come to the conclusion that he was a rotter, but in the web of\nFate and much to be pitied, which is like a man. And then he had played\nauction till midnight and lost ten francs, and gone to bed concluding\nthat he was certainly unlucky--at cards.\n\nAs Peter sat in his car at the Harfleur terminus that Thursday it must be\nconfessed that he was largely indifferent to the beauties of the Seine\nValley that he had professedly come to see. He was nervous, to begin\nwith, lest he should be recognised by anyone, and he was in one of his\ntroubled moods. But he had not long to wait. The tram came out, and he\nthrew away his cigarette and walked to meet the passengers.\n\nJulie looked very smart in the grey with its touch of scarlet, but she\nwas discontented with it. \"If only I could put on a few glad rags,\" she\nsaid as she climbed into the car, \"this would be perfect. You men can't\nknow how a girl comes to hate uniform. It's not bad occasionally, but if\nyou have to wear it always it spoils chances. But I've got my new shoes\nand silk stockings on,\" she added, sticking out a neat ankle, \"and my\nskirt is not vastly long, is it? Besides, underneath, if it's any\nconsolation to you, I've really pretty things. Uniform or not, I see no\nreason why one should not feel joyful next the skin. What do you think?\"\n\nPeter agreed heartily, and tucked a rug round her. \"There's the more need\nfor this, then,\" he said.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know: silk always makes me feel so comfortable that I can't\nbe cold. Isn't it a heavenly day? We are lucky, you know; it might have\nbeen beastly. Lor', but I'm going to enjoy myself to-day, my dear! I warn\nyou. I've got to forget how Tommy looked when I put her off with excuses.\nI felt positively mean.\"\n\n\"What did she say?\" asked Peter.\n\n\"That she didn't mind at all, as she had got to write letters,\" said\nJulie, \"Solomon, Tommy's a damned good sort!... Give us a cigarette, and\ndon't look blue. We're right out of town.\"\n\nPeter got out his case. \"Don't call me Solomon to-day,\" he said.\n\nJulie threw herself back in her corner and shrieked with laughter. The\nFrench chauffeur glanced round and grimaced appreciatively, and Peter\nfelt a fool. \"What am I to call you, then?\" she demanded. \"You are a\nfunny old thing, and now you look more of a Solomon than ever.\"\n\n\"Call me Peter,\" he said.\n\nShe looked at him, her eyes sparkling with amusement. \"I'm really\nbeginning to enjoy myself,\" she said. \"But, look here, you mustn't begin\nlike this. How in the world do you think we shall end up if you do?\nYou'll have nothing left to say, and I shall be worn to a rag and a\ntemper warding off your sentimentality.\"\n\n\"Julie,\" said Peter, \"are you ever serious? I can't help it, you know, I\nsuppose because I am a parson, though I am such a rotten one.\"\n\n\"Who says you're a rotten one?\"\n\n\"Everybody who tells the truth, and, besides, I know it. I feel an\nabsolute stummer when I go around the wards. I never can say a word to\nthe men.\"\n\n\"They like you awfully. You know little Jimmy, that kiddie who came in\nthe other day who's always such a brick? Well, last night I went and sat\nwith him a bit because he was in such pain. I told him where I was going\nto-day as a secret. What do you think he said about you?\"\n\n\"I don't want to know,\" said Peter hastily.\n\n\"Well, you shall. He said if more parsons were like you, more men would\ngo to church. What do you make of that, old Solomon?\"\n\n\"It isn't true to start with. A few might come for a little, but they\nwould soon fall off. And if they didn't, they'd get no good. I don't know\nwhat to say to them.\"\n\nJulie threw away her cigarette-stump. \"One sees a lot of human nature in\nhospitals, my boy,\" she said, \"and it doesn't leave one with many\nillusions. But from what I've seen, I should say nobody does much good by\ntalking.\"\n\n\"You don't understand,\" said Peter. \"Look here, I shouldn't call you\nreligious in a way at all Don't be angry. I don't _know_, but I don't\nthink so, and I don't think you can possibly know what I mean.\"\n\n\"I used to do the flowers in church regularly at home,\" she said. \"I\nbelieve in God, though you think I don't.\"\n\nPeter sighed. \"Let's change the subject,\" he said. \"Have you seen any\nmore of that Australian chap lately?\"\n\n\"Rather! He's engaged to a girl I know, and I reckon I'm doing her a good\nturn by sticking to him. He's a bit of a devil, you know, but I think I\ncan keep him off the French girls a bit.\"\n\nPeter looked at her curiously. \"You know what he is, and you don't mind\nthen?\" he said.\n\n\"Good Lord, no!\" she replied. \"My dear boy, I know what men are. It isn't\nin their nature to stick to one girl only. He loves Edie all right, and\nhe'll make her a good husband one day, if she isn't too particular and\ninquisitive. If I were married, I'd give my husband absolute liberty--and\nI'd expect it in return. But I shall never marry. There isn't a man who\ncan play fair. They'll take their own pleasures, but they are all as\njealous as possible. I've seen it hundreds of times.\"\n\n\"You amaze me,\" said Peter. \"Let's talk straight. Do you mean to say that\nif you were married and your husband ran up to Paris for a fortnight, and\nyou knew exactly what he'd gone for, you wouldn't mind?\"\n\n\"No,\" she declared roundly. \"I wouldn't. He'd come back all the more fond\nof me, I'd know I'd be a fool to expect anything else.\"\n\nPeter stared at her. She was unlike anything he had ever seen. Her moral\nstandards, if she had any, he added mentally, were so different from his\nown that he was absolutely floored. He thought grimly that alone in a\nmotor-car he had got among the multitude with a vengeance. \"Have you\never been in love?\" he demanded.\n\nShe laughed. \"Solomon, you're the quaintest creature. Do you think I'd\ntell you if I had been? You never ought to ask anyone that. But if you\nwant to know, I've been in love hundreds of times. It's a queer disease,\nbut not serious--at least, not if you don't take it too seriously.\"\n\n\"You don't know what love is at all,\" he said.\n\nShe faced him fairly and unashamed. \"I do,\" she said, \"It's an animal\npassion for the purpose of populating the earth. And if you ask me, I\nthink it is rather a dirty trick on the part of God.\"\n\n\"You don't mean that,\" he said, distressed.\n\nShe laughed again merrily, and slipped her hand into his under the rug.\n\"Peter,\" she said--\"there, am I not good? You aren't made to worry about\nthese things. I don't know that anyone is. We can't help ourselves, and\nthe best thing is to take our pleasures when we can find them. I suppose\nyou'll be shocked at me, but I'm not going to pretend. I wasn't built\nthat way. If this were a closed car I'd give you a kiss.\"\n\n\"I don't want that sort of a kiss,\" he said. \"That was what you gave me\nthe other night. I want....\"\n\n\"You don't know what you want, my dear, though you think you do. You\nshouldn't be so serious. I'm sure I kiss very nicely--plenty of men think\nso? anyway, and if there is nothing in that sort of kiss, why not kiss?\nIs there a Commandment against it? I suppose our grandmothers thought so,\nbut we don't. Besides, I've been east of Suez, where there ain't no ten\nCommandments. There's only one real rule left in life for most of us,\nPeter, and that's this: 'Be a good pal, and don't worry.'\"\n\nPeter sighed. \"You and I were turned out differently, Julie,\" he said.\n\"But I like you awfully. You attract me so much that I don't know how to\nexpress it. There's nothing mean about you, and nothing sham. And I\nadmire your pluck beyond words. It seems to me that you've looked life in\nthe face and laughed. Anybody can laugh at death, but very few of us at\nlife. I think I'm terrified of it. And that's the awful part about it\nall, for I ought to know the secret, and I don't. I feel an absolute\nhypocrite at times--when I take a service, for example. I talk about\nthings I don't understand in the least, even about God, and I begin\nto think I know nothing about Him....\" He broke off, utterly miserable.\n\n\"Poor old boy,\" she said softly; \"is it as bad as that?\"\n\nHe turned to her fiercely. \"You darling!\" he said, carried away by her\ntone. \"I believe I'd rather have you than--than God!\"\n\nShe did not move in her corner, nor did she smile now. \"I wonder,\" she\nsaid slowly. \"Peter, it's you that hate shams, not I. It's you that are\nbrave, not I. I play with shams because I know they're shams, but I like\nplaying with them. But you are greater than I. You are not content with\nplaying. One of these days--oh, I don't know....\" She broke off and\nlooked away.\n\nPeter gripped her hand tightly. \"Don't, little girl,\" he said. \"Let's\nforget for to-day. Look at those primroses; they're the first I've seen.\nAren't they heavenly?\"\n\nThey ran into Caudebec in good time, and lunched at an hotel overlooking\nthe river, with great enthusiasm. To Peter it was utterly delicious to\nhave her by him. She was as gay as she could possibly be, and made fun\nover everything. Sitting daintily before him, her daring, unconventional\ntalk carried him away. She chose the wine, and after _dèjeuner_ sat with\nher elbows on the table, puffing at a cigarette, her brown eyes alight\nwith mischief, apparently without a thought for to-morrow.\n\n\"Oh, I say,\" she said, \"do look at that party in the corner. The old\nMajor's well away, and the girl'll have a job to keep him in hand, I\nwonder where they're from? Rouen, perhaps; there was a car at the door.\nWhat do you think of the girl?\"\n\nPeter glanced back. \"No better than she ought to be,\" he said.\n\n\"No, I don't suppose so, but they are gay, these French girls. I don't\nwonder men like them. And they have a hard time. I'd give them a leg up\nany day if I could. I can't, though, so if ever you get a chance do it\nfor me, will you?\"\n\nPeter assented. \"Come on,\" he said. \"Finish that glass if you think you\ncan, and let's get out.\"\n\n\"Here's the best, then, I've done. What are we going to see?\"\n\nFor a couple of hours they wandered round the old town, with its narrow\nstreets and even fifteenth-century houses, whose backs actually leaned\nover the swift little river that ran all but under the place to the\nSeine. They penetrated through an old mill to its back premises, and\nclimbed precariously round the water-wheel to reach a little moss-grown\nplatform from which the few remaining massive stones of the Norman wall\nand castle could still be seen. The old abbey kept them a good while,\nJulie interested Peter enormously as they walked about its cool aisles,\nand tried to make out the legends of its ancient glass. She had nothing\nof that curious kind of shyness most people have in a church, and that he\nwould certainly have expected of her. She joked and laughed a little in\nit--at a queer row of mutilated statues packed into a kind of chapel to\nkeep quiet out of the way till wanted, at the vivid red of the Red Sea\nengulfing Pharaoh and all his host--but not in the least irreverently. He\nrecalled a saying of a book he had once read in which a Roman Catholic\npriest had defended the homeliness of an Italian congregation by saying\nthat it was right for them to be at home in their Father's House. It\nwas almost as if Julie were at home, yet he shrank from the inference.\n\nShe was entirely ignorant of everything, except perhaps, of a little\nbiblical history, but she made a most interested audience. Once he\nthought she was perhaps egging him on for his own pleasure, but when he\ngrew more silent she urged him to explain. \"It's ripping going round with\nsomebody who knows something,\" she said. \"Most of the men one meets know\nabsolutely nothing. They're very jolly, but one gets tired. I could\nlisten to you for ages.\"\n\nPeter assured her that he was almost as ignorant as they, but she was\nshrewdly insistent. \"You read more, and you understand what you read,\"\nshe said. \"Most people don't. I know.\"\n\nThey bought picture post-cards off a queer old woman in a peasant\nhead-dress, and then came back to the river and sat under the shade of\na line of great trees to wait for the tea the hotel had guaranteed them.\nJulie now did all the talking--of South Africa, of gay adventures in\nFrance and on the voyage, and of the men she had met. She was as frank\nas possible, but Peter wondered how far he was getting to know the real\ngirl.\n\nTea was an unusual success for France. It was real tea, but then there\nwas reason for that, for Julie had insisted on going into the big\nkitchen, to madame's amusement and monsieur's open admiration, and making\nit herself. But the chocolate cakes, the white bread and proper butter,\nand the cream, were a miracle. Peter wondered if you could get such\nthings in England now, and Julie gaily told him that the French made laws\nonly to break them, with several instances thereof. She declared that if\na food-ration officer existed in Caudebec he must be in love with the\nlandlady's daughter and that she only wished she could get to know such\nan official in Havre. The daughter in question waited on them, and Julie\nand she chummed up immensely. Finally she was despatched to produce a\ncollection of Army badges and buttons--scalps Julie called them. When\nthey came they turned them over. All ranks were represented, or nearly\nso, and most regiments that either could remember. There were Canadian,\nAustralian, and South African badges, and at last Julie declared that\nonly one was wanting.\n\n\"What will you give for this officer's badge?\" she demanded, seizing hold\nof one of Peter's Maltese crosses.\n\nThe girl looked at it curiously. \"What is it?\" she said.\n\n\"It's the badge of the Sacred Legion,\" said Julie gravely. \"You know\nMalta? Well, that's part of the British Empire, of course, and the\nEnglish used to have a regiment there to defend it from the Turks. It was\na great honour to join, and so it was called the Sacred Legion. This\nofficer is a Captain in it.\"\n\n\"Shut up Julie,\" said Peter, _sotto voce_.\n\nBut nothing would stop her. \"Come now,\" she said. \"What will you give?\nYou'll give her one for a kiss, won't you, Solomon?\"\n\nThe girl laughed and blushed \"Not before mademoiselle,\" she said, looking\nat Peter.\n\n\"Oh, I'm off,\" cried Julie, \"I'll spare you one, but only one, remember.\"\nand she deliberately got up and left them.\n\nMademoiselle was \"tres jolie,\" said the girl, collecting her badges.\nPeter detached a cross and gave it her, and she demurely put up her\nmouth. He kissed her lightly, and walked leisurely out to settle the bill\nand call the car. He had entirely forgotten his depression, and the world\nseemed good to him. He hummed a little song by the water's edge as he\nwaited, and thought over the day. He could never remember having had such\na one in his life. Then he recollected that one badge was gone, and he\nabstracted the other. Without his badges he would not be known as a\nchaplain.\n\nWhen Julie appeared, she made no remark, as he had half-expected. They\ngot in, and started off back in the cooling evening. Near Tancarville\nthey stopped the car to have the hood put up, and strolled up into the\ngrounds of the old castle while they waited.\n\n\"Extraordinary it must have been to have lived in a place like this,\"\nsaid Peter.\n\n\"Rather,\" said Julie, \"and beyond words awful to the women. I cannot\nimagine what they must have been like, but I think they must have been\nsomething like native African women.\"\n\n\"Why?\" queried Peter.\n\n\"Oh, because a native woman never reads and hardly goes five miles from\nher village. She is a human animal, who bears children and keeps the\nhouse of her master, that's all. That's what these women must have done.\"\n\n\"The Church produced some different types,\" said Peter; \"but they had no\nchance elsewhere, perhaps. Still, I expect they were as happy as we,\nperhaps happier.\"\n\n\"And their cows were happier still, I should think,\" laughed Julie. \"No,\nyou can't persuade me. I wouldn't have been a woman in those days for the\nworld.\"\n\n\"And now?\" asked Peter.\n\n\"Rather! We have much the best time on the whole. We can do what we like\npretty well. If we want to be men, we can. We can put on riding-breeches,\neven, and run a farm. But if we like, we can wear glad rags and nice\nundies, and be more women than ever.\"\n\n\"And in the end thereof?\" Peter couldn't help asking.\n\n\"Oh,\" said Julie lightly, \"one can settle down and have babies if one\nwants to. And sit in a drawing-room and talk scandal as much as one\nlikes. Not that I shall do either, thank you. I shall--oh, I don't know\nwhat I shall do. Solomon, you are at your worst. Pick me some of those\nprimroses, and let's be going. You never can tell: we may have to walk\nhome yet.\"\n\nPeter plucked a few of the early blooms, and she pushed them into her\nwaist-belt. Then they went back to the car, and got in again.\n\n\"Cold?\" he asked, after a little.\n\n\"A bit,\" she said. \"Tuck me up, and don't sit in that far corner all the\ntime. You make me feel chilly to look at you. I hate sentimental people,\nbut if you tried hard and were nice I could work up quite a lot of\nsentiment just now.\"\n\nHe laughed, and tucked her up as required. Then he lit a cigarette and\nslipped his arm round her waist. \"Is that better?\" he said.\n\n\"Much. But you can't have had much practice. Now tell me stories.\"\n\nPeter had a mind to tell her several, but he refrained, and they grew\nsilent, \"Do you think we shall have another day like this?\" he demanded,\nafter a little.\n\n\"I don't see why not,\" she said. \"But one never knows, does one? The\nchances are we shan't. It's a queer old world.\"\n\n\"Let's try, anyway; I've loved it,\" he said.\n\n\"So have I,\" said Julie. \"It's the best day I've had for a long time,\nPeter. You're a nice person to go out with, you know, though I mustn't\nflatter you too much. You should develop the gift; it's not everyone that\nhas it.\"\n\n\"I've no wish to,\" he said.\n\n\"You are an old bear,\" she laughed; \"but you don't mean all you say, or\nrather you do, for you will say what you mean. You shouldn't, Peter. It's\nnot done nowadays, and it gives one away. If you were like me, now, you\ncould say and do anything and nobody would mind. They'd never know what\nyou meant, and of course all the time you'd mean nothing.\"\n\n\"So you mean nothing all the time?\" he queried.\n\n\"Of course,\" she said merrily. \"What do you think?\"\n\nThat jarred Peter a little, so he said nothing and silence fell on them,\nand at the Hôtel de Ville in the city he asked if she would mind\nfinishing alone.\n\n\"Not a bit, old thing, if you want to go anywhere,\" she said.\n\nHe apologised. \"Arnold--he's our padre--is likely to be at the club, and\nI promised I'd walk home with him,\" he lied remorselessly. \"It's beastly\nrude, I know, but I thought you'd understand.\"\n\nShe looked at him, and laughed. \"I believe I do,\" she said.\n\nHe stopped the car and got out, settling with the man, and glancing up at\na clock. \"You'll be in at nine-forty-five,\" he said, \"as proper as\npossible. And thank you so much for coming.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Solomon,\" she replied. \"It's been just topping. Thanks\nawfully for taking me. And come in to tea soon, won't you?\" He promised\nand held out his hand. She pressed it, and waved out of the window as the\ncar drove off. And no sooner was it in motion than he cursed himself for\na fool. Yet he knew why he had done as he had, there, in the middle of\nthe town. He knew that he feared she would kiss him again--as before.\n\nNot noticing where he went, he set off through the streets, making,\nunconsciously almost, for the sea, and the dark boulevards that led from\nthe gaily lit centre of the city towards it. He walked slowly, his mind a\nchaos of thoughts, and so ran into a curious adventure.\n\nAs he passed a side-street he heard a man's uneven steps on the pavement,\na girl's voice, a curse, and the sound of a fall. Then followed an\nexclamation in another woman's voice, and a quick sentence in French.\n\nPeter hesitated a minute, and then turned down the road to where a small\ngroup was faintly visible. As he reached it, he saw that a couple of\nstreet girls were bending over a man who lay sprawling on the ground, and\nhe quickened his steps to a run. His boots were rubber-soled, and all but\nnoiseless. \"Here, I say,\" he said as he came up. \"Let that man alone.\nWhat are you doing?\" he added in halting French. One of the two girls\ngave a little scream, but the other straightened herself, and Peter\nperceived that he knew her. It was Louise, of Travalini's.\n\n\"What are you doing?\" he demanded again in English. \"Is he hurt?\"\n\n\"Non, non, monsieur,\" said Louise. \"He is but 'zig-zag.' We found him a\nlittle way down the street, and he cannot walk easily. So we help him. If\nthe gendarme--how do you call him?--the red-cap, see him, maybe he will\nget into trouble. But now you come. You will doubtless help him.\nVraiment, he is in luck. We go now, monsieur.\"\n\nPeter bent over the fallen man. He did not know him, but saw he was a\nsubaltern, though a middle-aged man. The fellow was very drunk, and did\nlittle else than stutter curses in which the name of our Lord was\nfrequent.\n\nPeter pulled at his arm, and Louise stooped to help him. Once up, he got\nhis arm round him, and demanded where he lived.\n\nThe man stared at them foolishly. Peter gave him a bit of a shake, and\ndemanded the address again, \"Come on,\" he said. \"Pull yourself together,\nfor the Lord's sake. We shall end before the A.P.M. if you don't. What's\nyour camp, you fool?\"\n\nAt that the man told him, stammeringly, and Peter sighed his relief.\n\"I know,\" he said to Louise. \"It's not far. I'll maybe get a taxi at the\ncorner.\" She pushed him towards a doorway: \"Wait a minute,\" she said.\n\"I live here; it's all right. I will get a fiacre. I know where to find\none.\"\n\nShe darted away. It seemed long to Peter, but in a few minutes a horn\ntooted and a cab came round the corner. Between them, they got the\nsubaltern in, and Peter gave the address. Then he pulled out his purse\nbefore stepping in himself, opened it, found a ten-franc note, and\noffered it to Louise.\n\nThe girl of the street and the tavern pushed it away. \"La!\" she\nexclaimed. \"Vite! Get in. Bon Dieu! Should I be paid for a kindness? Poor\nboy! he does not know what he does. He will 'ave a head--ah! terrible--in\nthe morning. And see, he has fought for la patrie.\" She pointed to a gold\nwound-stripe on his arm. \"Bon soir, monsieur.\"\n\nShe stepped back and spoke quickly to the driver, who was watching\nsardonically. He nodded. \"Bon soir, monsieur,\" she said again, and\ndisappeared in the doorway.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nA few weeks later the War Office--if it was the War Office, but one gets\ninto the habit of attributing these things to the War Office--had one of\nits regular spasms. It woke up suddenly with a touch of nightmare, and it\ngot fearfully busy for a few weeks before going to sleep again. All\nmanner of innocent people were dragged into the vortex of its activities,\nand blameless lives were disturbed and terrorised. This particular\nenthusiasm involved even such placid and contented souls as the\nChaplain-General, the Principal Chaplain, their entire staffs and a great\nmany of their rank and file. It created a new department, acquired many\nadditional offices for the B.E.F., dragged from their comfortable billets\na certain number of high-principled base officers, and then (by the mercy\nof Providence) flickered out almost as soon as the said officers bad made\nthemselves a little more comfortable than before in their new posts.\n\nIt was so widespread a disturbance that even Peter Graham, most harmless\nof men, with plenty of his own fish to fry, was dragged into it, as some\nleaf, floating placidly downstream, may be caught and whirled away in an\nexcited eddy. More definitely, it removed him from Havre and Julie just\nwhen he was beginning to want most definitely to stay there, and of\ncourse, when it happened, he could hardly know that it was to be but a\ntemporary separation.\n\nHe was summoned, then, one fine morning, to his A.C.G.'s office in town,\nand he departed on a bicycle, turning over in his mind such indiscretions\nof which he had been guilty and wondering which of them was about to trip\nhim. Pennell had been confident, indeed, and particular.\n\n\"You're for it, old bean,\" he had said. \"There's a limit to the patience\neven of the Church. They are going to say that there is no need for you\nto visit hospitals after dark, and that their padres mustn't be seen out\nwith nurses who smoke in public. And all power to their elbow, I say.\"\n\nPeter's reply was certainly not in the Prayer-Book, and would probably\nhave scandalised its compilers, but he thought, secretly, that there\nmight be something in what his friend said. Consequently he rode his\nbicycle carelessly, and was indifferent to tram-lines and some six inches\nof nice sticky mud on parts of the _pavé_. In the ordinary course,\ntherefore, these things revenged themselves upon him. He came off neatly\nand conveniently opposite a small _café debit_ at a turn in the dock\nroad, and the mud prevented the _pavé_ from seriously hurting him.\n\nA Frenchman, minding the cross-lines, picked him up, and he, madame,\nher assistant, and a customer, carried him into the kitchen off the\nbar and washed and dried him. The least he could do was a glass of\nFrench beer all round, with a franc to the dock labourer who straightened\nhis handle-bars and tucked in a loose spoke, and for all this the War\nOffice--if it was the War Office, for it may, quite possibly, have been\nLord Northcliffe or Mr. Bottomley, or some other controller of our\nnational life--was directly responsible. When one thinks that in a\nhundred places just such disturbances were in progress in ten times as\nmany innocent lives, one is appalled at their effrontery. They ought to\neat and drink more carefully, or take liver pills.\n\nHowever, in due time Peter sailed up to the office of his immediate chief\nbut little the worse for wear, and was ushered in. He was prepared for a\nsolitary interview, but he found a council of some two dozen persons, who\nincluded an itinerant Bishop, an Oxford Professor, a few Y.M.C.A. ladies,\nand--triumph of the A.C.G.--a Labour member. Peter could not conceive\nthat so great a weight of intellect could be involved in his affairs, and\ntook comfort. He seated himself on a wooden chair, and put on his most\nintelligent appearance; and if it was slightly marred by a mud streak\nat the back of his ear, overlooked by madame's kindly assistant who had\nattended to that side of him, he was not really to blame. Again, it was\nthe fault of Lord Northcliffe or--or any of the rest of them.\n\nIt transpired that he was slightly late: the Bishop had been speaking. He\nwas a good Bishop and eloquent, and, as the A.C.G. who now rose to take\nthe matter in hand remarked, he had struck the right note. In all\nprobability it was due to Peter's having missed that note that he was so\ncritical of the scheme. The note would have toned him up. He would have\nfelt a more generous sympathy for the lads in the field, and would have\nbeen more definitely convinced that something must be done. If not\nplainly stated in the Holy Scriptures, his lordship had at least found it\nindicated there, but Peter was not aware of this. He only observed that\nthe note had made everyone solemn and intense except the Labour member.\nThat gentleman, indeed, interrupted the A.C.G. before he was fairly on\nhis legs with the remark: \"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but as this is an\ninformal conference, does anyone mind if I smoke?\"...\n\nPeter's A.C.G. was anything but a fool, and the nightmare from\nHeadquarters had genuinely communicated itself to him. He felt all he\nsaid, and he said it ably. He lacked only in one regard: he had never\nbeen down among the multitude. He knew exactly what would have to have\nbeen in his own mind for him to act as he believed some of them were\nacting, and he knew exactly how he would, in so deplorable a condition of\naffairs, have set about remedying it. These things, then, he stated\nboldly and clearly. As he proceeded, the Y.M.C.A. ladies got out\nnotebooks, the Professor allowed himself occasional applause, and the\nLabour member lit another pipe.\n\nIt appeared that there was extreme unrest and agitation among the troops,\nor at least a section of the troops, for no one could say that the armies\nin the field were not magnificent. They had got to remember that the\nTommy of to-day was not as the Tommy of yesterday--not that he suffered\nby comparison, but that he was far better educated and far more inclined\nto think for himself. They were well aware that a little knowledge was a\ndangerous thing, or, again, as his friend the Bishop would have doubtless\nput it, how great a matter a little fire kindleth. There was no escaping\nit: foreign propaganda, certain undesirable books and papers--books and\npapers, he need hardly say, outside the control of the reputable\nPress--and even Socialistic agitators, were abroad in the Army. He did\nnot wish to say too much; it was enough to remind them of what, possibly,\nthey already knew, that certain depots on certain occasions had refused\nto sing the National Anthem, and were not content with their wages.\nInsignificant as these things might be in detail, G.H.Q. had felt there\nwas justifiable cause for alarm. This meeting had gathered to consider\nplans for a remedy.\n\nNow he thanked God that they were not Prussians. There must be no attempt\nat coercion. A war for liberty must be won by free people. One had, of\ncourse, to have discipline in the Army, but theirs was to-day a citizen\nArmy. His friend who had left his parliamentary duties to visit France\nmight rest assured that the organizations represented there that morning\nwould not forget that. In a word, Tommy had a vote, and he was entitled\nto it, and should keep it. One day he should even use it; and although no\none could wish to change horses crossing a stream, still, they hoped that\nday would speedily come--the day of peace and victory.\n\nBut meantime, what was to be done? As the Bishop had rightly said,\nsomething must be done. Resolute on this point, H.Q. had called in the\nC.G. and the P.C. and, he believed, expert opinion on both sides the\nHouse of Commons; and the general opinion agreed upon was that Tommy\nshould be educated to vote correctly when the time came, and to wait\npeacefully for that time. The Professor could tell them of schemes even\nnow in process of formation at home in order that the land they loved\nmight be cleaner, sweeter, better and happier, in the days to come. But\nTommy, meantime, did not know of these things. He was apparently under\nthe delusion that he must work out his own salvation, whereas, in point\nof fact, it was being worked out for him scientifically and religiously.\nIf these things were clearly laid before him, H.Q. was convinced that\nagitation, dissatisfaction, and even revolution--for there were those who\nthought they were actually trending in that direction--would be nipped in\nthe bud.\n\nThe scheme was simple and far-reaching. Lectures would be given all over\nthe areas occupied by British troops. Every base would be organised in\nsuch a way that such lectures and even detailed courses of study should\nbe available for everyone. Every chaplain, hutworker, and social\nentertainer must do his or her bit. They must know how to speak wisely\nand well--not all in public, but, everyone as the occasion offered,\nprivately, in hut or camp, to inquiring and dissatisfied Tommies. They\nwould doubtless feel themselves insufficient for these things, but\nstudy-circles were to be formed and literature obtained which would\ncompletely furnish them with information. He would conclude by merely\nlaying on the table a bundle of the splendid papers and tracts already\nprepared for this work. The Professor would now outline what was being\nattempted at home, and then the meeting would be open for discussion.\n\nThe Professor was given half an hour, and he made an excellent speech for\na cornered and academic theorist. The first ten minutes he devoted to\nexplaining that he could not explain in the time; in the second,\ntempering the wind to the shorn lamb, he pointed out that it was no use\nhis outlining schemes not yet completed, or that they could read for\nthemselves, or that, possibly, without some groundwork, they could not\nunderstand; and in the third ten minutes he outlined the committees\ndealing with the work and containing such well-known names as Robert\nSmiley, Mr. Button, and Clydens. He sat down. Everyone applauded--the\nM.P., and possibly the A.C.G., because they honestly knew and respected\nthese gentlemen, and the rest because they felt they ought to do so. The\nmeeting was then opened for discussion.\n\nPeter took no part in what followed, and, indeed, nothing\nover-illuminating was said save one remark, cast upon the waters by the\nLabour member, which was destined to be found after many days. They were\ntalking of the lectures, and one of the ladies (Peter understood a Girton\nlecturer) was apparently eager to begin without delay. The M.P. begged to\nask a question: Were there to be questions and a discussion?\n\nThe A.C.G. glanced at a paper before him, and rose. He apologised for\nomitting to mention it before, but H.Q. thought it would be subverse of\nall discipline if, let us say, privates should be allowed to get up and\nargue with the officers who might have addressed them. They all knew\nwhat might be said in the heat of argument. Also, if he might venture to\nsay so, some of their lecturers, though primed with the right lecture,\nmight not be such experts that they could answer every question, and\nplainly failure to satisfy a questioner might be disastrous. But\nquestions could be written and replies given at the next lecture. He\nthought, smiling, that some of them would perhaps find that convenient.\n\nThe M.P. leaned back in his chair. \"Well, sir,\" he said, \"I'm sorry to be\na wet-blanket, but if that is so, the scheme is wrecked from the start.\nYou don't know the men; I do. They're not going to line up, like the\npupils of Dotheboys Academy, for a spoonful of brimstone and treacle.\"\n\nThe meeting was slightly scandalised. The chairman, however, rose to the\noccasion. That, he said, was a matter for H.Q. They were there to do\ntheir duty. And, being an able person, he did his. In ten minutes they\nwere formed into study-bands and were pledged to study, with which\nconclusion the meeting adjourned.\n\nPeter was almost out of the door when he heard his name called, and\nturning, saw the A.C.G. beckoning him. He went up to the table and shook\nhands.\n\n\"Do you know the Professor?\" asked his superior. \"Professor, this is Mr.\nGraham.\"\n\n\"How do you do?\" said the man of science. \"You are Graham of Balliol,\naren't you? You read Political Science and Economics a little at Oxford,\nI think? You ought to be the very man for us, especially as you know how\nto speak.\"\n\nPeter was confused, but, being human, a little flattered. He confessed to\nthe sins enumerated, and waited for more.\n\n\"Well,\" said the A.C.G., \"I've sent in your name already, Graham, and\nthey want you to go to Abbeville for a few weeks. A gathering is to be\nmade there of the more promising material, and you are to get down to the\nwork of making a syllabus, and so on. You will meet other officers from\nall branches of the Service, and it should be interesting and useful. I\npresume you will be willing to go? Of course it is entirely optional, but\nI may say that the men who volunteer will not be forgotten.\"\n\n\"Quite so,\" said the Professor. \"They will render extremely valuable\nservice. I shall hope to be there part of the time myself.\"\n\nPeter thought quickly of a number of things, as one does at such a\nmoment. Some of them were serious things, and some quite frivolous--like\nJulie. But he could hardly do otherwise than consent. He asked when he\nshould have to go.\n\n\"In a few days. You'll have plenty of time to get ready. I should advise\nyou to write for some books, and begin to read up a little, for I expect\nyou are a bit rusty, like the rest of us. And I shall hope to have you\nback lecturing in this Army area before long.\"\n\nSo to speak, bowed out, Peter made his way home. In the Rue de Paris\nJulie passed him, sitting with a couple of other nurses in an ambulance\nmotor-lorry, and she waved her hand to him. The incident served to\ndepress him still more, and he was a bit petulant as he entered the mess.\nHe flung his cap on the table, and threw himself into a chair.\n\n\"Well,\" said Pennell, who was there, \"on the peg all right?\"\n\n\"Don't be a fool!\" said Peter sarcastically. \"I'm wanted on the Staff.\nHaig can't manage without me. I've got to leave this perishing suburb and\nskip up to H.Q., and don't you forget it, old dear. I shall probably be a\nMajor-General before you get your third pip. Got that?\"\n\nPennell took his pipe from his mouth. \"What's in the wind now?\" he\ndemanded.\n\n\"Well, you might not have noticed it, but I'm a political and economic\nexpert, and Haig's fed up that you boys don't tumble to the wisdom of the\ncenturies as you ought. Consequently I've got to instruct you. I'm going\nto waltz around in a motor-car, probably with tabs up, and lecture. And\nthere aren't to be any questions asked, for that's subversive of\ndiscipline.\"\n\n\"Good Lord, man, do talk sense! What in the world do you mean?\"\n\n\"I mean jolly well what I say, if you want to know, or something precious\nlike it. The blinking Army's got dry-rot and revolutionary fever, and we\nmay all be murdered in our little beds unless I put a shoulder to the\nwheel. That's a bit mixed, but it'll stand. I shall be churning out this\nthing by the yard in a little.\"\n\n\"Any extra pay?\" demanded Pennell anxiously. \"I can lecture on\nengineering, and would do for an extra sixpence. Whisky's going up, and\nI haven't paid my last mess bill.\"\n\n\"You haven't, old son,\" said Arnold, coming in, \"and you've jolly well\ngot to. Here's a letter for you, Graham.\"\n\nPeter glanced at the envelope and tore it open. Pennell knocked his pipe\nout with feigned dejection. \"The fellow makes me sick, padre,\" he said.\n\"He gets billets-doux every hour of the blessed day.\"\n\nPeter jumped up excitedly. \"This is better,\" he said. \"It's a letter from\nLangton at Rouen, a chap I met there who writes occasionally. He's been\nhauled in for this stunt himself, and is to go to Abbeville as well. By\nJove, I'll go up with him if I can. Give me some paper, somebody. I'll\nhave to write to him at once, or we'll boss it.\"\n\n\"And make a will, and write to a dozen girls, I should think,\" said\nPennell. \"I don't know what the blooming Army's coming to. Might as well\nchuck it and have peace, I think. But meantime I've got to leave you\nblighted slackers to gad about the place, and go and do an honest day's\nwork. _I_ don't get Staff jobs and red tabs. No; I help win the ruddy\nwar, that's all. See you before you go, Graham, I suppose? They'll likely\nrun the show for a day or two more without you. There'll be time for you\nto stand a dinner on the strength of it yet.\"\n\nA week later Peter met Langton by appointment in the Rouen club, the two\nof them being booked to travel that evening via Amiens to Abbeville. His\ntall friend was drinking a whisky-and-soda in the smoke-room and talking\nwith a somewhat bored expression to no less a person than Jenks of the\nA.S.C.\n\nPeter greeted them. \"Hullo!\" he said to the latter. \"Fancy meeting you\nhere again. Don't say you're going to lecture as well?\"\n\n\"The good God preserve us!\" exclaimed Jenks blasphemously. \"But I am off\nin your train to Boulogne. Been transferred to our show there, and\nbetween ourselves, I'm not sorry to go. It's a decent hole in some ways,\nBoulogne, and it's time I got out of Rouen. You're a lucky man, padre,\nnot to be led into temptation by every damned girl you meet. I don't know\nwhat they see in me,\" he continued mournfully, \"and, at this hour of the\nafternoon, I don't know what I see in them.\"\n\n\"Nor do I,\" said Langton. \"Have a drink, Graham? There'll be no getting\nanything on the ruddy train. We leave at six-thirty, and get in somewhere\nabout four a.m. next morning, so far as I can make out.\"\n\n\"You don't sound over-cheerful,\" said Graham.\n\n\"I'm not. I'm fed up over this damned lecture stunt! The thing's\ncondemned to failure from the start, and at any rate it's no time for it.\nFritz means more by this push than the idiots about here allow. He may\nnot get through; but, on the other hand, he may. If he does, it's UP with\nus all. And here we are to go lecturing on economics and industrial\nproblems while the damned house is on fire!\"\n\nPeter took his drink and sat down. \"What's your particular subject?\" he\nasked.\n\n\"The Empire. Colonies. South Africa. Canada. And why? Because I took a\ndegree in History in Cambridge, and have done surveying on the C.P.R.\nLor'! Finish that drink and have another.\"\n\nThey went together to the station, and got a first to themselves, in\nwhich they were fortunate. They spread their kit about the place,\nsuborned an official to warn everyone else off, and then Peter and\nLangton strolled up and down the platform for half an hour, as the\ntrain was not now to start till seven. Somebody told them there was\na row on up the line, though it was not plain how that would affect\nthem. Jenks departed on business of his own. A girl lived somewhere\nin the neighbourhood.\n\n\"How're you getting on now, padre?\" asked Langton.\n\n\"I'm not getting on,\" said Peter. \"I'm doing my job as best I can, and\nI'm seeing all there is to see, but I'm more in a fog than ever. I've got\na hospital at Havre, and I distribute cigarettes and the news of the day.\nThat's about all. I get on all right with the men socially, and now and\nagain I meet a keen Nonconformist who wants me to pray with him, or an\nAnglican who wants Holy Communion, but not many. When I preach I rebuke\nvice, as the Apostle says, but I'm hanged if I really know why.\"\n\nLangton laughed. \"That's a little humorous, padre,\" he said. \"What about\nthe Ten Commandments?\"\n\nPeter thought of Julie. He kicked a stone viciously. \"Commandments are no\nuse,\" he said--\"not out here.\"\n\n\"Nor anywhere,\" said Langton, \"nor ever, I think, too. Why do you suppose\nI keep moderately moral? Chiefly because I fear natural consequences and\nhave a wife and kiddies that I love. Why does Jenks do the opposite?\nBecause he's more of a fool or less of a coward, and chiefly loves\nhimself. That's all, and that's all there is in it for most of us.\"\n\n\"You don't fear God at all, then?\" demanded Peter.\n\n\"Oh that I knew where I might find him!\" quoted Langton. \"I don't believe\nHe thundered on Sinai, at any rate.\"\n\n\"Nor spoke in the Sermon on the Mount?\"\n\n\"Ah, I'm not so sure but it seems to me that He said too much or He\nsaid too little there, Graham. One can't help 'looking on' a woman\noccasionally. And in any case it doesn't seem to me that the Sermon is\nanything like the Commandments. Brotherly love is behind the first, fear\nof a tribal God behind the second. So far as I can see, Christ's creed\nwas to love and to go on loving and never to despair of love. Love,\naccording to Him, was stronger than hate, or commandments or preaching,\nor the devil himself. If He saved souls at all, He saved them by loving\nthem whatever they were, and I reckon He meant us to do the same. What do\nyou make of the woman taken in adultery, and the woman who wiped His feet\nwith her hair? Or of Peter? or of Judas? He saved Peter by loving him\nwhen he thought he ought to have the Ten Commandments and hell fire\nthrown at his head and I reckon He'd have saved Judas by giving him that\nsop-token of love if he hadn't had a soul that could love nothing but\nhimself.\"\n\n\"What is love, Langton?\" asked Peter, after a pause.\n\nThe other looked at him curiously, and laughed. \"Ask the Bishops,\" he\nsaid. \"Don't ask me. I don't know. Living with the woman to whom you're\nmarried because you fear to leave her, or because you get on all right,\nis not love at any rate. I can't see that marriage has got much to do\nwith it. It's a decent convention of society at this stage of development\nperhaps, and it may sign and seal love for some people. But I reckon\nlove's love--a big positive thing that's bigger than sin, and bigger than\nthe devil. I reckon that if God sees that anywhere, He's satisfied. I\ndon't think Cranmer's marriage service affects Him much, nor the laws\nof the State. If a man cares to do without either, he runs a risk, of\ncourse. Society's hard on a woman, and man's meant to be a gregarious\ncreature. But that's all there is in it.\"\n\n\"But how can you tell lust from love?\" demanded Peter.\n\n\"You can't, I think,\" said Langton. \"Most men can't, anyway. Women may\ndo, but I don't know. I reckon that what they lust after mostly is babies\nand a home. I don't think they know it any more than men know that what\nthey're after is the gratification of a passion; but there it is. We're\nsewer rats crawling up a damned long drain, if you ask me, padre! I don't\nknow who said it, but it's true.\"\n\nThey turned in their walk, and Peter looked out over the old town. In the\nglow of sunset the thin iron modern spire of the cathedral had a grace\nnot its own, and the roofs below it showed strong and almost sentient.\nOne could imagine that the distant cathedral brooding over the city\nheard, saw, and spoke, if in another language than the language of men.\n\n\"If that were all, Langton,\" said Peter suddenly, \"I'd shoot myself.\"\n\n\"You're a queer fellow, Graham,\" said Langton. \"I almost think you might.\nI'd like to know what becomes of you, anyway. Forgive me--I don't mean to\nbe rude--but you may make a parson yet. But don't found a new religion\nfor Heaven's sake, and don't muddle up man-made laws and God-made\ninstincts--if they are God-made,\" he added.\n\nPeter said nothing, until they were waiting at the carriage-door for\nJenks. Then he said: \"Then you think out here men have simply abandoned\nconventions, and because there is no authority or fear or faith left to\nthem, they do as they please?\"\n\nLangton settled himself in a corner. \"Yes,\" he said, \"that's right in a\nway. But that's negatively. I'd go farther than that. Of course, there\nare a lot of Judas Iscariots about for whom I shouldn't imagine the devil\nhimself has much time, though I suppose we ought not to judge 'em, but\nthere are also a lot of fine fellows--and fine women. They are men and\nwomen, if I understand it, who have sloughed off the conventions, that\nare conventions simply for convention's sake, and who are reaching out\ntowards the realities. Most of them haven't an idea what those are, but\ndumbly they know. Tommy knows, for instance, who is a good chum and who\nisn't; that is, he knows that sincerity and unselfishness and pluck are\nrealities. He doesn't care a damn if a chap drinks and swears and commits\nwhat the Statute-Book and the Prayer-Book call fornication. And he\ncertainly doesn't think there is an ascending scale of sins, or at\nany rate that you parsons have got the scale right.\"\n\n\"I shouldn't be surprised if we haven't,\" said Peter. \"The Bible lumps\nliars and drunkards and murderers and adulterers and dogs--whatever that\nmay mean--into hell altogether.\"\n\n\"That's so,\" said Langton, sticking a candle on the window-sill; \"but I\nreckon that's not so much because they lie or drink or murder or lust\nor--or grin about the city like our friend Jenks, who'll likely miss the\nboat for that very reason, but because of something else they all have in\ncommon.\"\n\n\"What's that?\" demanded Peter.\n\n\"I haven't the faintest idea,\" said Langton.\n\nAt this moment the French guard, an R.T.O., and Jenks appeared in sight\nsimultaneously, the two former urging the latter along. He caught sight\nof them, and waved.\n\n\"Help him in,\" said the R.T.O., a jovial-looking subaltern,\ngenially--\"and keep him there,\" he added under his voice.\n\"He's had all he can carry, and if he gets loose again he'll\nbe for the high jump. The wonder is he ever got back in\ntime.\"\n\nPeter helped him up. The subaltern glanced at his badges and smiled.\n\"He's in good company anyway, padre,\" he said. \"If you're leaving the\nninety-and-nine in the wilderness, here's one to bring home rejoicing.\"\nHe slammed the door. \"Right-o!\" he said to the guard; \"they're all aboard\nnow.\" The man comprehended the action, and waved a flag. The train\nstarted after the manner of French trains told off for the use of British\nsoldiers, and Jenks collapsed on the seat.\n\n\"Damned near thing that!\" he said unsteadily; \"might have missed the\nbloody boat! I saw my little bit, though. She's a jolly good sort, she\nis. Blasted strong stuff that French brandy, though! Whiskies at the club\nfirst, yer know. Give us a hand, padre; I reckon I'll just lie down\na bit.... Jolly good sort of padre, eh, skipper? What?\"\n\nPeter helped him into his place, and then came and sat at his feet,\nopposite Langton, who smiled askance at him. \"I'll read a bit,\" he said.\n\"Jenks won't trouble us further; he'll sleep it off. I know his sort. Got\na book, padre?\"\n\nPeter said he had, but that he wouldn't read for a little, and he sat\nstill looking at the country as they jolted past in the dusk. After a\nwhile Langton lit his candle, and contrived a wind-screen, for the centre\nwindow was broken, of a newspaper. Peter watched him drowsily. He had\nbeen up early and travelled already that day. The motion helped, too, and\nin half an hour or so he was asleep.\n\nHe dreamt that he was preaching Langton's views on the Sermon on the\nMount in the pulpit of St. John's, and that the Canon, from his place\nbeside the credence-table within the altar-rails, was shouting at him to\nstop. In his dream he persisted, however, until that irate dignitary\nseized the famous and massive offertory-dish by his side and hurled it\nin the direction of the pulpit. The clatter that it made on the stone\nfloor awoke him.\n\nHe was first aware that the train was no longer in motion, and next that\nLangton's tall form was leaning half out of the window. Then confused\nnoises penetrated his consciousness, and he perceived that light\nflickered in the otherwise darkened compartment. \"Where are we?\" he\ndemanded, now fully awake. \"What's up?\"\n\nLangton answered over his shoulder. \"Some where outside of a biggish\ntown,\" he said; \"and there's the devil of a strafe on. The whole\nsky-line's lit up, but that may be twenty miles off. However, Fritz\nmust have advanced some.\"\n\nHe was interrupted by a series of much louder explosions and the rattle\nof machine-gun fire. \"That's near,\" he said. \"Over the town, I should\nsay--an air-raid, though it may be long-distance firing. Come and see for\nyourself.\"\n\nHe pulled himself back into the carriage, and Peter leaned out of the\nwindow in his turn. It was as the other had said. Flares and sudden\nflashes, that came and went more like summer-lightning than anything\nelse, lit up the whole sky-line, but nearer at hand a steady glow from\none or two places showed in the sky. One could distinguish flights of\nilluminated tracer bullets, and now and again what he took to be Very\nlights exposed the countryside. Peter saw that they were in a siding, the\nbanks of which reached just above the top of the compartments. It was\nonly by craning that he could see fields and what looked like a house\nbeyond. Men were leaning out of all the windows, mostly in silence. In\nthe compartment next them a man cursed the Huns for spoiling his beauty\nsleep. It was slightly overdone, Peter thought.\n\n\"Good God!\" said, his companion behind him. \"Listen!\"\n\nIt was difficult, but between the louder explosions Peter concentrated\nhis senses on listening. In a minute he heard something new, a faint buzz\nin the air.\n\n\"Aeroplanes,\" said Langton coolly. \"I hope they don't spot us. Let me\nsee. Maybe it's our planes.\" He craned out in Peter's place. \"I can't see\nanything,\" he said, \"and you can hear they're flying high.\"\n\nDown the train everyone was staring upwards now. \"Christ!\" exclaimed\nLangton suddenly, \"some fool's lighting a pipe! Put that match out\nthere,\" he called.\n\nOther voices took him up. \"That's better,\" he said in a minute. \"Forgive\nmy swearing, padre, but a match might give us away.\"\n\nPeter was silent, and, truth to tell, terrified. He tried hard not to\nfeel it, and glanced at Jenks. He was still asleep, and breathing\nheavily. He pressed his face against the pane, and tried to stare up too.\n\n\"They're coming,\" said Langton suddenly and quickly. \"There they are,\ntoo--Hun planes. They may not see us, of course, but they may....\" He\nbrought his head in again and sat down.\n\n\"Is there anything we can do?\" said Peter.\n\n\"Nothing,\" said Langton, \"unless you like to get under the seat. But\nthat's no real good. It's on the knees of the gods, padre, whatever gods\nthere be.\"\n\nJust then Peter saw one. Sailing obliquely towards them and lit by the\nlight of a flare, the plane looked serene and beautiful. He watched it,\nfascinated.\n\n\"It's very low--two hundred feet, I should say,\" said Langton behind him.\n\"Hope he's no pills left. I wonder whether there's another. Let's have a\nlook the other side.\"\n\nHe had scarcely got up to cross the compartment when the rattle of a\nmachine-gun very near broke out. \"Our fellows, likely,\" he exclaimed\nexcitedly, struggling with the sash, but they knew the truth almost as he\nspoke.\n\nLangton ducked back. A plane on the other side was deliberately flying up\nthe train, machine-gunning. \"Down, padre, for God's sake!\" he exclaimed,\nand threw himself on the floor.\n\nPeter couldn't move. He heard the splintering of glass and a rending of\nwoodwork, some oaths, and a sudden cry. The whirr of an engine filled his\nears and seemed, as it were, on top of them. Then there was a crash all\nbut at his side, and next instant a half-smothered groan and a dreadful\ngasp for breath.\n\nHe couldn't speak. He heard Langton say, \"Hit, anyone?\" and then Jenks'\n\"They've got me, skipper,\" in a muffled whisper, and he noticed that the\nhard breathing had ceased. At that he found strength and voice and jumped\nup. He bent over Jenks. \"Where have you got it, old man?\" he said, and\nhardly realised that it was himself speaking.\n\nThe other was lying just as before, on his back, but he had pulled his\nknees up convulsively and a rug had slipped off. In a flare Peter saw\nbeads of sweat on his forehead and a white, twisted face.\n\nHe choked back panic and knelt down. He had imagined it all before, and\nyet not quite like this. He knew what he ought to say, but for a minute\nhe could not formulate it. \"Where are you hit, Jenks?\" was all he said.\n\nThe other turned his head a little and looked at him. \"Body--lungs, I\nthink,\" he whispered. \"I'm done, padre; I've seen chaps before.\"\n\nThe words trailed off. Peter gripped himself mentally, and steadied his\nvoice. \"Jenks, old man,\" he said. \"Just a minute. Think about God--you\nare going to Him, you know. Trust Him, will you? 'The blood of Jesus\nChrist, God's Son, saveth us from all sin.'\"\n\nThe dying man, moved his hand convulsively. \"Don't you worry, padre,\" he\nsaid faintly; \"I've been--confirmed.\" The lips tightened a second with\npain, and then: \"Reckon I won't--shirk. Have you--got--a cigarette?\"\n\nPeter felt quickly for his case, fumbled and dropped one, then got\nanother into his fingers. He hesitated a second, and then, put it to his\nown lips, struck a match, and puffed at it. He was in the act of holding\nit to the other when Langton spoke behind him:\n\n\"It's no good now, padre,\" he said quietly; \"it's all over.\"\n\nAnd Peter saw that it was.\n\nThe planes did not come back. The officer in charge of the train came\ndown it with a lantern, and looked in. \"That makes three,\" he said. \"We\ncan do nothing now, but we'll be in the station in a bit. Don't show any\nlights; they may come back. Where the hell were our machines, I'd like to\nknow?\"\n\nHe went on, and Peter sat down in his corner. Langton picked up the rug,\nand covered up the body. Then he glanced at Peter. \"Here,\" he said,\nholding out a flask, \"have some of this.\"\n\nPeter shook his head. Langton came over to him. \"You must,\" he said;\n\"it'll pull you together. Don't go under now, Graham. You kept your nerve\njust now--come on.\"\n\nAt that Peter took it, and drained the little cup the other poured out\nfor him. Then he handed it back, without a word.\n\n\"Feel better?\" queried the other, a trifle curiously, staring at him.\n\n\"Yes, thanks,\" said Peter--\"a damned sight better! Poor old Jenks! What\nblasted luck that he should have got it!... Langton, I wish to God it had\nbeen me!\"\n\n\n\n\nPART II\n\n\"And the Lord turned and looked upon Peter.\"\n\nST. LUKE'S GOSPEL.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nThe charm of the little towns of Northern France is very difficult to\nimprison on paper. It is not exactly that they are old, although there is\nscarcely one which has not a church or a château or a quaint medieval\nstreet worth coming far to see; nor that they are particularly\npicturesque, for the ground is fairly flat, and they are all but always\nset among the fields, since it is by agriculture far more than by\nmanufacture that they live. But they are clean and cheerful; one thinks\nof them under the sun; and they are very homely. In them the folk smile\nsimply at you, but not inquisitively as in England, for each bustles\ngaily about his own affairs, and will let you do what you please, with a\nshrug of the shoulders. Abbeville is very typical of all this. It has its\nchurch, and from the bridge over the Somme the backs of ancient houses\ncan be seen leaning half over the river, which has sung beneath them for\nfive hundred years; and it is set in the midst of memories of stirring\ndays. Yet it is not for these that one would revisit the little town, but\nrather that one might walk by the still canal under the high trees in\nspring, or loiter in the market-place round what the Hun has left of the\nstatue of the famous Admiral with his attendant nymphs, or wander down\nthe winding streets that skirt the ancient church and give glimpses of\nits unfinished tower.\n\nPeter found it very good to be there in the days that followed the death\nof Jenks. True, it was now nearer to the seat of war than it had been for\nyears, and air-raids began to be common, but in a sense the sound of the\nguns fitted in with his mood. So great a battle was being fought within\nhim that the world could not in any case have seemed wholly at peace, and\nyet in the quiet fields, or sauntering of an afternoon by the river, he\nfound it easier than at Havre to think. Langton was almost his sole\ncompanion, and a considerable intimacy had grown up between them. Peter\nfound that his friend seemed to understand a great deal of his thoughts\nwithout explanation. He neither condoled nor exhorted; rather he watched\nwith an almost shy interest the other's inward battle.\n\nThey lodged at the Hôtel de l'Angleterre, that hostelry in the street\nthat leads up and out of the town towards Saint Riquier, which you\nenter from a courtyard that opens on the road and has rooms that you\nreach by means of narrow, rickety flights of stairs and balconies\noverhanging the court. The big dining-room wore an air of gloomy\nfestivity. Its chandeliers swathed in brown paper, its faded paint, and\nits covered upholstery, suggested that it awaited a day yet to be when it\nshould blossom forth once more in glory as in the days of old. Till then\nit was as merry as it could be. Its little tables filled up of an evening\nwith the new cosmopolitan population of the town, and old Jacques bustled\nround with the good wine, and dropped no hint that the choice brands were\nnearly at an end in the cellar.\n\nPeter and Langton would have their war-time apology for _petit déjeuner_\nin bed or alone. Peter, as a rule, was up early, and used to wander out a\nlittle and sometimes into church, coming back to coffee as good as ever,\nbut war-time bread instead of rolls on a small table under a low balcony\nin the courtyard if it were fine. He would linger over it, and have\nchance conversation with passing strangers of all sorts, from clerical\npersonages belonging to the Church Army or the Y.M.C.A. to officers who\ncame and went usually on unrevealed affairs. Then Langton would come\ndown, and they would stroll round to the newly-fitted-up office which had\nbeen prepared for the lecture campaign and glance at maps of districts,\nand exchange news with the officer in charge, who, having done all he\ncould, had now nothing to do but stand by and wait for the next move from\na War Office that had either forgotten his existence or discovered some\nhitch in its plans. They had a couple of lectures from people who were\nalleged to know all about such topics as the food shortage at home or the\nnew plans for housing, but who invariably turned out to be waiting\nthemselves for the precise information that was necessary for successful\nlectures. After such they would stroll out through the town into the\nfields, and Langton would criticise the thing in lurid but humorous\nlanguage, and they would come back to the club and sit or read till\nlunch.\n\nThe club was one of the best in France, it was an old house with lovely\nfurniture, and not too much of it, which stood well back from the street\nand boasted an old-fashioned garden of shady trees and spring flowers and\ngreen lawns. Peter could both read and write in its rooms, and it was\nthere that he finally wrote to Hilda, but not until after much thought.\n\nAfter his day with Julie at Caudebec one might have supposed that there\nwas nothing left for him to do but break off his engagement to Hilda. But\nit did not strike him so. For one thing, he was not engaged to Julie or\nanything like it, and he could not imagine such a situation, even if\nJulie had not positively repudiated any desire to be either engaged or\nmarried. He had certainly declared, in a fit of enthusiasm, that he loved\nher, but he had not asked if she loved him. He had seen her since, but\nalthough they were very good friends, nothing more exciting had passed\nbetween them. Peter was conscious that when he was with Julie she\nfascinated him, but that when he was away--ah! that was it, when he was\naway? It certainly was not that Hilda came back and took her place; it\nwas rather that the other things in his mind dominated him. It was a\ncurious state of affairs. He was less like an orthodox parson than he had\never been, and yet he had never thought so much about religion. He\nagonised over it now. At times his thoughts were almost more than he\ncould bear.\n\nIt came, then, to this, that he had not so much changed towards Hilda as\nchanged towards life. Whether he had really fundamentally changed in such\na way that a break with the old was inevitable he did not know. Till then\nHilda was part of the old, and if he went back to it she naturally took\nher old place in it. If he did not--well, there he invariably came to the\nend of thought. Curiously enough, it was when faced with a mental blank\nthat Julie's image began to rise in his mind. If he admitted her, he\nfound himself abandoning himself to her. He felt sometimes that if he\ncould but take her in his arms he could let the world go by, and God with\nit. Her kisses were at least a reality. There was neither convention nor\nsubterfuge nor divided allegiance there. She was passion, naked and\nunashamed, and at least real.\n\nAnd then he would remember that much of this was problematical after all,\nfor they had never kissed as that passion demanded, or at least that he\nhad never so kissed her. He was not sure of the first. He knew that he\ndid not understand Julie, but he felt, if he did kiss her, it would be a\nkiss of surrender, of finality. He feared to look beyond that, and he\ncould not if he would.\n\nHe wrote, then, to Hilda, and he told of the death of Jenks, and of their\narrival in Abbeville, \"You must understand, dear,\" he said, \"that all\nthis has had a tremendous effect upon me. In that train all that I had\nbegun to feel about the uselessness of my old religion came to a head. I\ncould do no more for that soul than light a cigarette.... Possibly no one\ncould have done any more, but I cannot, I will not believe it. Jenks was\nnot fundamentally evil, or at least I don't think so. He was rather a\nselfish fool who had no control, that is all. He did not serve the devil;\nit was much more that he had never seen any master to serve. And I could\ndo nothing. I had no master to show him.\n\n\"You may say that that is absurd: that Christ is my Master, and I could\nhave shown Him. Hilda, so He is: I cling passionately to that. But\nlisten: I can't express Him, I don't understand Him. I no longer feel\nthat He was animating and ordering the form of religion I administered.\nIt is not that I feel Anglicanism to be untrue, and something else--say\nWesleyanism--to be true; it is much more that I feel them all to be out\nof touch with reality. _That's_ it. I don't think you can possibly see\nit, but that is the main trouble.\n\n\"That, too, brings me to my next point, and this I find harder still to\nexpress. I want you to realise that I feel as if I had never seen life\nbefore. I feel as if I had been shown all my days a certain number of\npictures and told that they were the real thing, or given certain\ndescriptions and told that they were true. I had always accepted that\nthey were. But, Hilda, they are not. Wickedness is not wicked in the way\nthat I was told it was wicked, and what I was told was salvation is not\nthe salvation men and women want. I have been playing in a fool's\nparadise all these years, and I've got outside the gate. I am distressed\nand terrified, I think, but underneath it all I am very glad....\n\n\"You will say, 'What are you going to do?' and I can only reply, I don't\nknow. I'm not going to make any vast change, if you mean that. A padre I\nam, and a padre I shall stay for the war at least, and none of us can see\nbeyond that at present. But what I do mean to do is just this: I mean to\ntry and get down to reality myself and try to weigh it up. I am going to\neat and drink with publicans and sinners; maybe I shall find my Master\nstill there.\"\n\nPeter stopped and looked up. Langton was stretched out in a chair beside\nhim, reading a novel, a pipe in his mouth. Moved by an impulse, he\ninterrupted him.\n\n\"Old man,\" he said, \"I want you to let me read you a bit of this letter.\nIt's to my girl, but there's nothing rotten in reading it. May I?\"\n\nLangton did not move. \"Carry on,\" he said shortly.\n\nPeter finished and put down the sheet. The other smoked placidly and said\nnothing. \"Well?\" demanded Peter impatiently.\n\n\"I should cut out that last sentence,\" pronounced the judge.\n\n\"Why? It's true.\"\n\n\"Maybe, but it isn't pretty.\"\n\n\"Langton,\" burst out Peter, \"I'm sick of prettinesses! I've been stuffed\nup with them all my life, and so has she. I want to break with them.\"\n\n\"Very likely, and I don't say that it won't be the best thing for you to\ntry for a little to do so, but she hasn't been where you've been or seen\nwhat you've seen. You can't expect her wholly to understand. And more\nthan that, maybe she is meant for prettinesses. After all, they're\npretty.\"\n\nPeter stabbed the blotting-paper with his pen. \"Then she isn't meant for\nme,\" he said.\n\n\"I'm not so sure,\" said Langton. \"I don't know that you've stuff enough\nin you to get on without those same prettinesses yourself. Most of us\nhaven't. And at any rate I wouldn't burn my boats yet awhile. You may\nwant to escape yet.\"\n\nPeter considered this in silence. Then he drew the sheets to him and\nadded a few more words, folded the paper, put it in the envelope, and\nstuck it down. \"Come on,\" he said, \"let's go and post this and have a\nwalk.\"\n\nLangton got up and looked at him curiously, as he sometimes did. \"Peter,\"\nhe said, \"you're a weird blighter, but there's something damned gritty in\nyou. You take life too strenuously. Why can't you saunter through it like\nI do?\"\n\nPeter reached for this cap. \"Come on,\" he said again, \"and don't talk\nrot.\"\n\nOut in the street, they strolled aimlessly on, more or less in silence.\nThe big book-shop at the corner detained them for a little, and they\nregarded its variegated contents through the glass. It contained a few\ngood prints, and many more poorly executed coloured pictures of ruined\nplaces in France and Belgium, of which a few, however, were not bad.\nCheek by jowl with some religious works, a statue of Notre Dame d'Albert,\nand some more of Jeanne d'Arc, were a line of pornographic novels and\nbeyond packets of picture post-cards entitled _Théâtreuses, Le Bain de la\nParisienne, Les Seins des Marbre_, and so on. Then Langton drew Graham's\nattention to one or two other books, one of which had a gaudy cover\nrepresenting a mistress with a birch-rod in her hands and a number of\ncanes hung up beside her, while a girl of fifteen or so, with very red\ncheeks, was apparently about to be whipped. \"Good Lord,\" said Langton,\n\"the French are beyond me. This window is a study for you, Graham, in\nitself. I should take it that it means that there is nothing real in\nlife. It is utterly cynical.\n\n\"'And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,\nEnd in what All begins and ends in--Yes;\nThink then you are To-day what Yesterday\nYou were--To-morrow you shall not be less,'\"\n\nhe quoted.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Peter. \"Or else it means that there are only two realities,\nand that the excellent person who keeps this establishment regards both\nin a detached way, and conceives it her business to cater for each. Let's\ngo on.\"\n\nThey turned the corner, and presently found themselves outside the famous\ncarven door of the church. \"Have you ever been round?\" asked Peter.\n\n\"No,\" said Langton; \"let's go in.\"\n\nThey passed through the door into the old church, which, in contrast to\nthat at Le Havre, was bathed in the daylight that streamed through many\nclear windows. Together they wandered round it, saying little. They\ninspected an eighteenth-century statue of St. Roch, who was pulling up\nhis robe to expose a wound and looking upwards at the same time\nseraphically--or, at least, after the manner that the artist of that age\nhad regarded as seraphic. A number of white ribbons and some wax figures\nof feet and hands and other parts of the body were tied to him. They\nstood before a wonderful coloured alabaster reredos of the fourteenth\ncentury, in which shepherds and kings and beasts came to worship at the\nmanger. They had a little conversation as to the architectural periods of\nthe nave, choir, and transepts, and Langton was enthusiastic over a noble\npillar and arch. Beyond they gazed in silence at a statue of Our Lady\nImmaculate in modern coloured plaster, so arranged that the daylight\nfell through an unseen opening upon her. Among the objects in front were\na pair of Renaissance candlesticks of great beauty. A French officer came\nup and arranged and lit a votive candle as they watched, and then went\nback to stand in silence by a pillar. The church door banged and two\npeasants came in, one obviously from the market, with a huge basket of\ncarrots and cabbages and some long, thin French loaves. She deposited\nthis just inside the door, took holy water, clattered up towards the high\naltar, dropped a curtsy, and made her way to an altar of the Sacred\nHeart, at which she knelt. Peter sighed. \"Come on,\" he said; \"let's\nget out.\"\n\nLangton marched on before him, and held the door back as they stepped\ninto the street. \"Well, philosopher,\" he demanded, \"what do you make of\nthat?\"\n\nPeter smiled. \"What do you?\" he said.\n\n\"Well,\" said Langton, \"it leaves me unmoved, except when I'm annoyed by\nthe way their wretched images spoil the church, but it is plain that they\nlike it. I should say one of your two realities is there. But I find it\nhard to forgive the bad art.\"\n\n\"Do you?\" said Peter, \"I don't. It reminds me of those appalling\nenlargements of family groups that you see, for example, in any Yorkshire\ncottage. They are unutterably hideous, but they stand for a real thing\nthat is honest and beautiful--the love of home and family. And by the\nsame token, when the photographs got exchanged, as they do in Mayfair,\nfor modern French pictures of nude women, or some incredible Futurist\nextravagance, that love has usually flown out of the window.\"\n\n\"Humph!\" said Langton--\"not always. Besides, why can't a family group be\nmade artistically, and so keep both art and love? I should think we ought\nto aim at that.\"\n\n\"I suppose we ought,\" said Peter, \"but in our age the two don't seem to\ngo together. Goodness alone knows why. Why, hullo!\" he broke off.\n\n\"What's up now?\" demanded Langton.\n\n\"Why, there, across the street, if that isn't a nurse I know from Havre,\nI don't know who it is. Wait a tick.\"\n\nHe crossed the road, and saw, as he got near, that it was indeed Julie.\nHe came up behind her as she examined a shop-window. \"By all that's\nwonderful, what are you doing here?\" he asked.\n\nShe turned quickly, her eyes dancing. \"I wondered if I should meet you,\"\nshe said. \"You see, your letter told me you were coming here, but I\nhaven't heard from you since you came, and I didn't know if you had\nstarted your tour or not. _I_ came simply enough. There's a big South\nAfrican hospital here, and we had to send up a batch of men by motor.\nAs they knew I was from South Africa, they gave me the chance to come\nwith them.\"\n\n\"Well, I _am_ glad,\" said Peter, devouring the sight of her. \"Wait a\nminute; I must introduce you to Langton. He and I are together, and he's\na jolly good chap.\"\n\nHe turned and beckoned Langton, who came over and was introduced. They\nwalked up the street a little way together. \"Where are you going now?\"\nasked Peter.\n\n\"Back to the hospital,\" said Julie. \"A car starts from the square at\ntwelve-forty-five, and I have to be in for lunch.\"\n\n\"Have you much to do up there?\" asked Peter.\n\n\"Oh no,\" she said, \"my job's done. I clear off the day after to-morrow.\nWe only got in last night, so I get a couple of days' holiday. What are\nyou doing? You don't look any too busy.\"\n\nPeter glanced across at Langton and laughed. \"We aren't,\" he said. \"The\nwhole stunt's a wash-out, if you ask me, and we're really expecting to be\nsent back any day. There's too much doing now for lectures. Is the\nhospital full?\"\n\n\"Packed,\" said Julie gravely. \"The papers say we're falling back steadily\nso as not to lose men, but the facts don't bear it out. We're crammed\nout. It's ghastly; I've never known it so bad.\"\n\nPeter had hardly ever seen her grave before, and her face showed a new\naspect of her. He felt a glow of warmth steal over him. \"I say,\" he said,\n\"couldn't you dine with us to-night? We're at the Angleterre, and its\ntremendously respectable.\"\n\nShe laughed, her gravity vanishing in a minute. \"I must say,\" she said,\n\"that I'd love to see you anywhere really respectable. He's a terrible\nperson for a padre--don't you think so, Captain Langton?\"\n\n\"Terrible,\" said Langton. \"But really the Angleterre is quite proper. You\ndon't get any too bad a dinner, either. Do come, Miss Gamelyn.\"\n\nShe appeared to consider. \"I might manage it,\" she said at last, stopping\njust short of entering the square; \"but I haven't the nerve to burst in\nand ask for you. Nor will it do for you to see me all the way to that\ncar, or we shall have a dozen girls talking. If you will meet me\nsomewhere,\" she added, looking at Peter, \"I'll risk it. I'll have a\nheadache and not go to first dinner; then the first will think I'm at the\nsecond, and the second at the first. Besides, I've no duty, and the\nhospital's not like Havre. It's all spread out in huts and tents, and\nit's easy enough to get in. Last, but not least, it's Colonial, and the\nmatron is a brick. Yes, I'll come.\"\n\n\"Hurrah!\" said Peter. \"I tell you what: I'll meet you at the\ncross-roads below the hospital and bring you on. Will that do? What\ntime? Five-thirty?\"\n\n\"Heavens! do you dine at five-thirty?\" demanded Julie.\n\n\"Well, not quite, but we've got to get down,\" said Peter, laughing.\n\n\"All right,\" said Julie, \"five-thirty, and the saints preserve us. Look\nhere, I shall chance it and come in mufti if possible. No one knows me\nhere.\"\n\n\"Splendid!\" said Peter. \"Good-bye, five-thirty.\"\n\n\"Good-bye,\" said Langton; \"we'll go and arrange our menu.\"\n\n\"There must be champagne,\" called Julie merrily over her shoulder, and\ncatching his eye.\n\nThe two men watched her make for the car across the sunlit square, then\nthey strolled round it towards a café. \"Come on,\" said Langton; \"let's\nhave an appetiser.\"\n\nFrom the little marble-topped table Peter watched the car drive away.\nJulie was laughing over something with another girl. It seemed to\nconclude the morning, somehow. He raised his glass and looked at Langton.\n\"Well,\" he said, \"here's to reality, wherever it is.\"\n\n\"And here's to getting along without too much of it,\" said Langton,\nsmiling at him.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe dinner was a great success--at least, in the beginning. Julie wore a\nfrock of some soft brown stuff, and Peter could hardly keep his eyes off\nher. He had never seen her out of uniform before, and although she was\ngay enough, she said and did nothing very exciting. If Hilda had been\nthere she need hardly have behaved differently, and for a while Peter was\nwholly delighted. Then it began to dawn on him that she was playing up to\nLangton, and that set in train irritating thoughts. He watched the other\njealously, and noticed how the girl drew him out to speak of his travels,\nand how excellently he did it, leaning back at coffee with his cigarette,\npolite, pleasant, attractive. Julie, who usually smoked cigarette after\ncigarette furiously, only, however, getting through about half of each,\nnow refused a second, and glanced at the clock about 8.30.\n\n\"Oh,\" she said, \"I must go.\"\n\nPeter remonstrated. \"If you can stay out later at Havre,\" he said, \"why\nnot here?\"\n\nShe laughed lightly. \"I'm reforming,\" she said, \"in the absence of bad\ncompanions. Besides, they are used to my being later at Havre, but here I\nmight be spotted, and then there would be trouble. Would you fetch my\ncoat, Captain Graham?\"\n\nPeter went obediently, and they all three moved out into the court.\n\n\"Come along and see her home, Langton,\" he said, though he hardly knew\nwhy he included the other.\n\n\"Thanks,\" said his friend; \"but if Miss Gamelyn will excuse me, I ought\nnot. I've got some reading I must do for to-morrow, and I want to write a\nletter or two as well. You'll be an admirable escort, Graham.\"\n\n\"Good-night,\" said Julie, holding out her hand; \"perhaps we shall meet\nagain some time. One is always running up against people in France. And\nthank you so much for your share of the entertainment.\"\n\nIn a few seconds Peter and she were outside. The street was much\ndarkened, and there was no moon. They walked in silence for a little.\nSuddenly he stopped. \"Wouldn't you like a cab?\" he said; \"we might be\nable to get one.\"\n\nJulie laughed mischievously, and Peter gave a little start in the dark.\nIt struck him that this was the old laugh and that he had not heard it\nthat night before. \"It's convenient, of course,\" she said mockingly. \"Do\nget one by all means. But last time I came home with you in a cab, you\nlet me finish alone. I thought that was to be an invariable rule.\"\n\n\"Oh, don't Julie,\" said Peter.\n\nHer tone changed. \"Why not?\" she demanded. \"Solomon, what's made you so\nglum to-night? You were cheerful enough when you met me, and when we\nbegan; then you got silent. What's the matter?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" he said.\n\nShe slipped her hand in his arm. \"There is something,\" she said. \"Do tell\nme.\"\n\n\"Do you like Langton?\" he asked.\n\n\"Oh, immensely--why? Oh, Lord, Solomon, what do you mean?\"\n\n\"You were different in his presence, Julie, from anything you've been\nbefore.\"\n\nThey took a few paces in silence; then Peter had an idea, and glanced at\nher. She was laughing silently to herself. He let her hand fall from his\narm, and looked away. He knew he was behaving like an ass, but he could\nnot help it.\n\nShe stopped suddenly. \"Peter,\" she said, \"I want to talk to you. Take me\nsomewhere where it's possible.\"\n\n\"At this hour of the evening? What about being late?\"\n\nShe gave a little stamp with her foot, then laughed again. \"What a boy it\nis!\" she said. \"Don't you know anywhere to go?\"\n\nPeter hesitated; then he made up his mind. There was an hotel he knew of,\nout of the main street, of none too good a reputation. Some men had taken\nLangton and him there, once, in the afternoon, between the hours in which\ndrinks were legally sold, and they had gone through the hall into a\nlittle back-room that was apparently partly a sitting-room, partly part\nof the private rooms of the landlord, and had been served there. He\nrecalled the description of one of the men: \"It's a place to know. You\ncan always get a drink, and take in anyone you please.\"\n\n\"Come on, then,\" he said, and turned down a back-street.\n\n\"Where in the world are you taking me?\" demanded Julie. \"I shall have no\nreputation left if this gets out.\"\n\n\"Nor shall I,\" said Peter.\n\n\"Nor you will; what a spree! Do you think it's worth it, Peter?\"\n\nUnder a shaded lamp they were passing at the moment, he glanced at her,\nand his pulses raced! \"Good God, Julie!\" he said, \"you could do anything\nwith me.\"\n\nShe chuckled with laughter, her brown eyes dancing. \"Maybe,\" she said,\n\"but I'm out to talk to you for your good now.\"\n\nThey turned another corner, into an old street, and under an arch. Peter\nwalked forward to the hotel entrance, and entered. There was a woman in\nthe office, who glanced up, and looked, first at Peter, then at Julie. On\nseeing her behind him, she came forward. \"What can I do for monsieur?\"\nshe asked.\n\n\"Good-evening, madame,\" said Peter. \"I was here the other day. Give us a\nbottle of wine in that little room at the back, will you?\"\n\n\"Why, certainly, monsieur,\" said she. \"Will madame follow me? It is this\nway.\"\n\nShe opened, the door, and switched on the light, \"Shall I light the fire,\nmadame?\" she demanded.\n\nJulie beamed on her. \"Ah, yes; that would be jolly,\" she said. \"And the\nwine, madame--Beaune.\"\n\nThe woman smiled and bowed. \"Let madame but seat herself and it shall\ncome,\" she said, and went out.\n\nJulie took off her hat, and walked to the glass, patting her hair. \"Give\nme a cigarette, my dear,\" she said. \"It was jolly hard only to smoke one\nto-night.\"\n\nPeter opened and handed her his case in silence, then pulled up a big\nchair. There was a knock at the door, and a girl came in with the wine\nand glasses, which she set on the table, and, then knelt down to light\nthe fire. She withdrew and shut the door. They were alone.\n\nPeter was still standing. Julie glanced at him, and pointed to a chair\nopposite. \"Give me a drink, and then go and sit there,\" she said.\n\nHe obeyed. She pulled her skirts up high to the blaze and pushed one foot\nout to the logs, and sat there, provocative, sipping her wine and puffing\nlittle puffs of smoke from her cigarette. \"Now, then,\" she said, \"what\ndid I do wrong to-night?\"\n\nPeter was horribly uncomfortable. He felt how little he knew this girl,\nand he felt also how much he loved her.\n\n\"Nothing, dear,\" he said; \"I was a beast.\"\n\n\"Well,\" she said, \"if you won't tell me, I'll tell you. I was quite\nproper to-night, immensely and intensely proper, and you didn't like it.\nYou had never seen me so. You thought, too, that I was making up to your\nfriend. Isn't that so?\"\n\nPeter nodded. He marvelled that she should know so well, and he wondered\nwhat was coming.\n\n\"I wonder what you really think of me, Peter,\" she went on. \"I suppose\nyou think I never can be serious--no, I won't say serious--conventional.\nBut you're very stupid; we all of us can be, and must be sometimes. You\nasked me just now what I thought of your friend--well, I'll tell you.\nHe is as different from you as possible. He has his thoughts, no doubt,\nbut he prefers to be very tidy. He takes refuge in the things you throw\noverboard. He's not at all my sort, and he's not yours either, in a way.\nGoodness knows what will happen to either of us, but he'll be Captain\nLangton to the end of his days. I envy that sort of person intensely,\nand when I meet him I put on armour. See?\"\n\nPeter stared at her. \"How is he different from Donovan?\" he asked.\n\n\"Donovan! Oh, Lord, Peter, how dull you are! Donovan has hardly a thought\nin his head about anything except Donovan. He was born a jolly good sort,\nand he's sampled pretty well everything. He's cool as a cucumber, though\nhe has his passions like everyone else. If you keep your head, you can\nsay or do anything with Donovan. But Langton is deliberate. He knows\nabout things, and he refuses and chooses. I didn't want ...\" She broke\noff. \"Peter,\" she said savagely, \"in two minutes that man would know more\nabout me than you do, if I let him.\"\n\nHe had never seen her so. The childish brown eyes had a look in them that\nreminded him of an animal caught in a trap. He sprang up and dropped on\nhis knees by her side, catching her hand.\n\n\"Oh, Julie, don't,\" he said. \"What do you mean? What is there about you\nthat I don't know? How are you different from either of them?\"\n\nShe threw her cigarette away, and ran her fingers through his hair, then\nmade a gesture, almost as if pushing something away, Peter thought, and\nlaughed her old ringing trill of laughter.\n\n\"Lor', Peter, was I tragic? I didn't mean to be, my dear. There's a lot\nabout me that you don't know, but something that you've guessed. I can't\nabide shams and conventions really. Let's have life, I say, whatever it\nis. Heavens! I've seen street girls with more in them than I pretended to\nyour friend to have in me to-night. They at least deal with human nature\nin the raw. But that's why I love you; there's no need to pretend to you,\npartly because, at bottom, you like real things as much as I, and partly\nbecause--oh, never mind.\"\n\n\"Julie, I do mind--tell me,\" he insisted.\n\nHer face changed again. \"Not now, Peter,\" she said. \"Perhaps one day--who\ncan say? Meantime, go on liking me, will you?\"\n\n\"Like you!\" he exclaimed, springing up, \"Why, I adore you! I love you!\nOh, Julie, I love you! Kiss me, darling, now, quick!\"\n\nShe pushed him off. \"Not now,\" she cried; \"I've got to have my revenge.\nI know why you wouldn't come home in the cab! Come! we'll clink glasses,\nbut that's all there is to be done to-night!\" She sprang up, flushed and\nglowing, and held out an empty glass.\n\nPeter filled hers and his, and they stood opposite to each other. She\nlooked across the wine at him, and it seemed to him that he read a\nlonging and a passion in her eyes, deep down below the merriness that was\nthere now. \"Cheerio, old boy,\" she said, raising hers. \"And 'here's to\nthe day when your big boots and my little shoes lie outside the same\nclosed door!'\"\n\n\"Julie!\" he said, \"you don't mean it!\"\n\n\"Don't I? How do you know, old sober-sides. Come, buck up, Solomon; we've\nbeen sentimental long enough. I'd like to go to a music-hall now or do a\nskirt-dance. But neither's really possible; certainly not the first, and\nyou'd be shocked at the second. I'm half a mind to shock you, though,\nonly my skirt's not long and wide enough, and I've not enough lace\nunderneath. I'll spare you. Come on!\"\n\nShe seized her hat and put it on. They went out into the hall. There\nwas a man in uniform there, at the office, and a girl, French and\nunmistakable, who glanced at Julie, and then turned away. Julie nodded to\nmadame, and did not glance at the man, but as she passed the girl she\nsaid distinctly, \"Bon soir, mademoiselle.\" The girl started and turned\ntowards her. Julie smiled sweetly and passed on.\n\nPeter took her arm in the street, for it was quite dark and deserted.\n\n\"Why did you do that?\" he said.\n\n\"What?\" she demanded.\n\n\"Speak to that girl. You know what she is?\"\n\n\"I do--a poor devil that's playing with Fate for the sake of a laugh and\na bit of ribbon. I'm jolly sorry for her, for they are both worth a great\ndeal, and it's hard to be cheated into thinking you've got them when Fate\nis really winning the deal. And I saw her face before she turned away.\nWhy do you think she turned away, Peter? Not because she was ashamed, but\nbecause she is beginning to know that Fate wins. Oh, la! la! what a\nworld! Let's be more cheerful. _'There's a long, long trail a-winding.'_\"\nshe hummed.\n\nPeter laughed. \"Oh, my dear,\" he said, \"was there ever anyone like you?\"\n\nLangton was reading in his room when Peter looked in to say good-night.\n\n\"Hullo!\" he said. \"See her home?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Peter. \"What did you think of her?\"\n\n\"She's fathoms deep, I should say. But I should take care if I were you,\nmy boy. It's all very well to eat and drink with publicans and sinners,\nthough, as I told you, it's better no one should know. But they are\ndangerous company.\"\n\n\"Why especially?\" demanded Peter.\n\nLangton stretched himself. \"Oh, I don't know,\" he said. \"Perhaps because\nsociety's agin 'em.\"\n\n\"Look here, Langton,\" said Peter. \"Do you hear what I say? _Damn_\nsociety! Besides, do you think your description applies to that girl?\"\n\nLangton smiled. \"No,\" he said, \"I shouldn't think so, but she's not your\nsort, Peter. When you take that tunic off, you've got to put on a black\ncoat. Whatever conclusions you come to, don't forget that.\"\n\n\"Have I?\" said Peter; \"I wonder.\"\n\nLangton got up. \"Of course you have,\" he said. \"Life's a bit of a farce,\nbut one's got to play it. See here, I believe in facing facts and getting\none's eyes open, but not in making oneself a fool. Nothing's worth that.\"\n\n\"Isn't it?\" said Peter; and again, \"I wonder.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't, and at any rate I'm for bed. Good-night.\"\n\n\"Good-night,\" said Peter; \"I'm off too. But I don't agree with you. I'm\ninclined to think exactly the opposite--that anything worth having is\nworth making oneself a fool over. What is a fool, anyway? Good-night.\"\n\nHe closed the door, and Langton walked over to the window to open it. He\nstood there a few minutes listening to the silence. Then a cock crew\nsomewhere, and was answered far away by another. \"Yes,\" said Langton to\nhimself, \"what is a fool, anyway?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nThe Lessing family sat at dinner, and it was to be observed that some of\nthose incredible wonders at which Peter Graham had once hinted to Hilda\nhad come about. There were only three courses, and Mr. Lessing had but\none glass of wine, for one thing; for another he was actually in uniform,\nand was far more proud of his corporal's stripes than he had previously\nbeen of his churchwarden's staff of office. Nor was he only in the\nVolunteers; he was actually in training to some extent, and the war had\nat any rate done him good. His wife was not dressed for dinner either;\nshe had just come in from a war committee of some sort. A solitary maid\nwaited on them, and they had already given up fires in the dining-room.\nNot that Mr. Lessing's income had appreciably diminished, but, quite\nhonestly, he and his were out to win the war. He had come to the\nconclusion at last that business could not go on as usual, but, routed\nout of that stronghold, he had made for himself another. The war was\nnow to him a business. He viewed it in that light.\n\n\"We must stop them,\" he was saying. \"Mark my words, they'll never get to\nAmiens. Did you see Haig's last order to the troops? Not another inch was\nto be given at any cost. We shan't give either. We've _got_ to win this\nwar; there's too much at stake for us to lose. Whoever has to foot the\nbill for this business is ruined, and it's not going to be Great Britain.\nThey were saying in the Hall to-night that the Army is as cheerful as\npossible: that's the best sign. I doubt the German Army is. Doesn't\nGraham say anything about it, Hilda?\"\n\n\"No, father,\" said Hilda shortly, and bent over her plate.\n\n\"'Xtraordinary thing. He's a smart chap, and I should have thought he'd\nhave been full of it. Perhaps he's too far back.\"\n\n\"He was in a big town he doesn't name the other day, in an air-raid, and\na man was killed in his carriage.\"\n\n\"Good Lord! you don't say so? When did you hear that? I thought we had\ncommand of the air.\"\n\n\"I got a letter to-night, father. He just mentioned that, but he doesn't\nsay much else about it. He's at Abbeville now, on the Somme, and he says\nthe Germans come over fairly often by night.\"\n\n\"Impossible!\" snorted the old man, \"I have it on the best possible\nauthority that our air service is completely up to date now, and far\nbetter than the German. He must be exaggerating. They would never allow\nthe enemy to out-distance us in so important a department. What else does\nhe say?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing;\" said Hilda, \"or at least nothing about the war in a way.\nIt's full of--of his work.\" She stopped abruptly.\n\n\"Well, well,\" said Mr. Lessing, \"I was against his going at first; but\nit's all shoulders to the wheel now, and it was plain he ought to see a\nlittle life out there. A young man who doesn't won't have much of a look\nin afterwards--that's how _I_ reasoned it. And he works hard, does\nGraham; I've always said that for him, I expect he's of great service to\nthem. Eh, Hilda?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said the girl; \"he doesn't say. But he's been chosen for\nsome special work, lecturing or something, and that's why he's at\nAbbeville.\"\n\n\"Ah! Good! Special work, eh? He'll go far yet, that fellow. I don't know\nthat I'd have chosen him for you, Hilda, at first, but this business has\nshaken us all up, and I shouldn't be surprised if Graham comes to the\nfront over it.\" He stopped as the maid came in, \"I think I'll have my\ncoffee in the study, my dear,\" he said to Mrs. Lessing; \"I have some\nreading to do.\"\n\nWhen the two women were once more alone Mrs. Lessing put her cup down,\nand spoke. \"What is it, dear?\" she questioned.\n\nHilda did not look at her. The two, indeed, understood each other very\nwell. \"I can't tell you here, mother,\" she said.\n\n\"Come, then, dear,\" said Mrs. Lessing, rising. \"Let's go to my room. Your\nfather will be busy for some time, and we shall not be disturbed there.\"\n\nShe led the way, and lit a small gas fire. \"I can't be cold in my\nbedroom,\" she said; \"and though I hate these things, they are better\nthan nothing. Now, dear, what is it?\"\n\nHilda seated herself on a footstool on the other side of the fire, and\nstared into it. The light shone on her fair skin and hair, and Mrs.\nLessing contemplated her with satisfaction from several points of view.\nFor one thing, Hilda was so sensible....\n\n\"What is it?\" she asked again. \"Your father saw nothing--men don't; but\nyou can't hide from me, dear, that your letter has troubled you. Is Peter\nin trouble?\"\n\nHilda shook her head. Then she said: \"Well, at least, mother, not that\nsort of trouble. I told father truly; he's been picked for special\nservice.\"\n\n\"Well, then, what is it?\" Mrs. Lessing was a trifle impatient.\n\n\"Mother,\" said Hilda, \"I've known that he has not been happy ever since\nhis arrival in France, but I've never properly understood why. Peter is\nqueer in some ways, you know. You remember that sermon of his? He won't\nbe content with things; he's always worrying. And now he writes\ndreadfully. He says...\" She hesitated. Then, suddenly, she pulled out the\nletter. \"Listen, mother,\" she said, and read what Peter had written in\nthe club until the end. \"'I am going to eat and drink with publicans and\nsinners; maybe I shall find my Master still there.'\"\n\nIf Langton could have seen Mrs. Lessing he would have smiled that cynical\nsmile of his with much satisfaction. She was frankly horrified--rendered,\nin fact, almost speechless.\n\n\"Hilda!\" she exclaimed. \"What a thing to write to you! But what does he\nmean? Has he forgotten that he is a clergyman? Why, it's positively\nblasphemous! He is speaking of Christ, I suppose. My poor girl, he must\nbe mad. Surely you see that, dear.\"\n\nHilda stared on into the fire, and made no reply. Her mother hardly\nneeded one, \"Has he met another woman, Hilda?\" she demanded.\n\n\"I don't know; he doesn't say so,\" said Hilda miserably. \"But anyhow, I\ndon't see that that matters.\"\n\n\"Not matter, girl! Are you mad too? He is your fiancé, isn't he? Really,\nI think I must speak to your father.\"\n\nHilda turned her head slowly, and mother and daughter looked at each\nother. Mrs. Lessing was a woman of the world, but she was a good mother,\nand she read in her daughter's eyes what every mother has to read sooner\nor later. It was as one woman to another, and not as mother to daughter,\nthat she continued lamely: \"Well, Hilda, what do you make of it all? What\nare you going to do?\"\n\nThe girl looked away again, and a silence fell between them. Then she\nsaid, speaking in short, slow sentences:\n\n\"I will tell you what I make of it, mother. Peter's gone beyond me, I\nthink, now, that I have always feared a little that he might. Of course,\nhe's impetuous and headstrong, but it is more than that. He feels\ndifferently from me, from all of us. I can see that, though I don't\nunderstand him a bit. I thought\" (her voice faltered) \"he loved me more.\nHe knows how I wanted him to get on in the Church, and how I would have\nhelped him. But that's nothing to him, or next to nothing. I think he\ndoesn't love me at all, mother, and never really did.\"\n\nMrs. Lessing threw her head back. \"Then he's a fool, my dear,\" she said\nemphatically. \"You're worth loving; you know it. I should think no more\nabout him, Hilda.\"\n\nHilda's hands tightened round her knees. \"I can't do that,\" she said.\n\nMrs. Lessing was impatient again. \"Do you mean, Hilda, that if he\npersists in this--this madness, if he gives up the Church, for example,\nyou will not break off the engagement? Mind you, that is the point. Every\nyoung man must have a bit of a fling, possibly even clergymen, I suppose,\nand they get over it. A sensible girl knows that. But if he ruins his\nprospects--surely, Hilda, you are not going to be a fool?\"\n\nThe word had been spoken again. Peter had had something to say on it, and\nnow the gods gave Hilda her chance. She stretched her fine hands out to\nthe fire, and a new note came into her voice.\n\n\"A fool, mother? Oh no, I shan't be a fool. A fool would follow him to\nthe end of the world. A fool of a woman would give him all he wants for\nthe sake of giving, and be content with nothing in return. I see that.\nBut I'm not made for that sort of foolery.... No, I shan't be a fool.\"\n\nMrs. Lessing could not conceal her satisfaction. \"Well, I am sure I am\nvery glad to hear you say it, and so would your father be. We have not\nbrought you up carefully for nothing, Hilda. You are a woman now, and I\ndon't believe in trying to force a woman against her will, but I am\nheartily glad, my dear, that you are so sensible. When you are as old as\nI am and have a daughter of your own, you will be glad that you have\nbehaved so to-night.\"\n\nHilda got up, and put her hands behind her head, which was a favourite\nposture of hers. She stood looking down at her mother with a curious\nexpression on her face. Mrs. Lessing could make nothing of it; she merely\nthought Hilda \"queer\"; she had travelled farther than she knew from\nyouth.\n\n\"Shall I, mother?\" said Hilda. \"Yes, I expect I shall. I have been\ncarefully brought up, as you say, so carefully that even now I can only\njust see what a fool might do, and I know quite well that I can't do it.\nAfter a while I shall no more see it than you do. I shall even probably\nforget that I ever did. So that is all. And because I love him, really,\nI don't think I can even say 'poor Peter!' That's curious, isn't it,\nmother?... Well, I think I'll go to my room for a little. I won't come in\nagain. Good-night.\"\n\nShe bent and kissed Mrs. Lessing. Her mother held her arms a moment more.\n\"Then, what are you going to do?\" she demanded.\n\nHilda freed herself, \"Write and try to persuade him not to be a fool\neither, I think. Not that it's any good. And then--wait and see.\" She\nwalked to the floor, \"Of course, this is just between us two, isn't it,\ndear?\" she said, playing with the handle.\n\n\"Of course,\" said her mother. \"But do be sensible, dear, and don't wait\ntoo long. It is much better not to play with these things--much better.\nAnd do tell me how things go, darling, won't you?\"\n\n\"Oh yes,\" said Hilda slowly, \"Oh yes I'll tell you.... Good-night.\"\n\nShe passed out and closed the door gently \"I wonder why I can't cry\nto-night?\" she asked herself as she went to her room, and quite honestly\nshe did not know.\n\nAcross the water Peter's affairs were speeding up. If Hilda could have\nseen him that night she would probably have wept without difficulty, but\nfor a much more superficial reason than the reason why she could not weep\nin London. And it came about in this way.\n\nOn the morning after the dinner Peter was moody, and declared he would\nnot go down to the office, but would take a novel out to the canal. He\nwas in half a mind to go up and call at the hospital, but something held\nhim back. Reflection showed him how near he had been to the fatal kiss\nthe night before, and he did not wish, or, with the morning, he thought\nhe did not wish, to see Julie so soon again. So he got his novel and went\nout to the canal, finding a place where last year's leaves still lay\nthick, and one could lie at ease and read. We do these things all our\ndays, and never learn the lesson.\n\nHalf-way through the morning he looked up to see Langton striding along\ntowards him. He was walking quickly, with the air of one who brings news,\nand he delivered his message as soon as they were within earshot of each\nother. \"Good news, Graham,\" he called out. \"This tomfoolery is over.\nThey've heard from H.Q. that the whole stunt is postponed, and we've all\nto go back to our bases. Isn't it like 'em?\" he demanded, as he came up.\n\"Old Jackson in the office is swearing like blazes. He's had all his maps\nmade and plans drawn up, etcetera and etcetera, and now they're so much\nwaste-paper. Jolly fortunate, any road.\" He sat down and got out a pipe.\n\nPeter shut his book. \"I'm glad,\" he said. \"I'm sick of foolin' round\nhere. Not but what it isn't a decent enough place, but I prefer the\nother. There's more doing. When do we go?\"\n\n\"To-morrow. They're getting our movement orders, yours to Havre, mine to\nRouen. I put in a spoke for you, to get one via Rouen, but I don't know\nif you will. It's a vile journey otherwise.\"\n\n\"By Jove!\" cried Peter. \"I've an idea! Miss Gamelyn's troop of\nmotor-buses goes back to Havre to-morrow empty. Why shouldn't I travel\non them? Think I could work it?\"\n\nLangton puffed solemnly. \"Sure, I should think,\" he said, \"being a padre,\nanyway.\"\n\n\"What had I best do?\"\n\n\"Oh, I should go and see Jackson and get him to 'phone the hospital for\nyou--that is, if you really want to go that way.\"\n\n\"It's far better than that vile train,\" said Peter. \"Besides, one can see\nthe country, which I love. And I've never been in Dieppe, and they're to\ngo through there and pick up some casualties.\"\n\n\"Just so,\" said Langton, still smoking.\n\n\"Well,\" said Peter, \"reckon I'll go and see about it. Jackson's a decent\nold stick, but I'd best do it before he tackles the R.T.O. Coming?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Langton. \"Leave that novel, and come back for me. You won't be\nlong.\"\n\n\"Right-o,\" said Peter, and set off.\n\nIt was easily done. Jackson had no objections, and rang up the hospital\nwhile Peter waited. Oh yes, certainly they could do it. What was the\nname? Captain. Graham, C.F. certainly. He must be at the hospital\nearly--eight-thirty the next morning. That all right? Thank you.\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Peter. \"Motoring's a long sight better than the train\nthese days, and I'll get in quicker, too, as a matter of fact, or at any\nrate just as quickly.\" He turned to go, but a thought struck him. \"Have\nyou an orderly to spare?\" he asked.\n\n\"Any quantity,\" said the other bitterly. \"They've been detailed for\nweeks, and done nothing. You can have one with pleasure. It'll give the\nperisher something to do.\"\n\n\"Thanks,\" said Peter; \"I want to send a note, that's all. May I write it\nhere?\"\n\nHe was given pen and paper, and scribbled a little note to Julie. He did\nnot know who else might be on the lorry, or if she would want to appear\nto know him. The orderly was called and despatched and he left the place\nfor the last time.\n\nLangton and he walked out to St. Riquier in the afternoon, had tea there,\nand got back to dinner. A note was waiting for Peter, a characteristic\none.\n\n\"DEAREST SOLOMON (it ran),\n\n\"You are really waking up! There will be three of us nurses in one lorry,\nand they're sure to start you off in another. We lunch at Eu, and I'll be\ndelighted to see you. Then you can go on in our car. Dieppe's on the\nknees of the gods, as you say, but probably we can pull off something.\n\n\"JULIE.\"\n\nHe smiled and put it in his pocket. Langton said nothing till the coffee\nand liqueurs came in. Then he lit a cigarette and held the match out to\nPeter. \"Wonder if we shall meet again?\" he said.\n\n\"Oh, I expect so,\" said Peter. \"Write, anyway, won't you? I'll likely get\na chance to come to Rouen.\"\n\n\"And I likely won't be there. I'm putting in again for another job.\nThey're short of men now, and want equipment officers for the R.A.F. It's\na stunt for which engineering's useful, and I may get in. I don't suppose\nI'll see much of the fun, but it's better than bossing up a labour\ncompany, any road.\"\n\n\"Sportsman,\" said Peter. \"I envy you. Why didn't you tell me? I've half a\nmind to put in too. Do you think I'd have a chance?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Langton brutally. \"Besides, it's not your line. You know what\nyours is; stick to it.\"\n\n\"And you know that I'm not so sure that I can,\" said Peter.\n\n\"Rot!\" said the other. \"You can if you like. You won't gain by running\naway. Only I give you this bit of advice, old son: go slow. You're so\ndamned hot-headed! You can't remake the world to order in five minutes;\nand if you could, I bet it wouldn't be a much better old world. We've\nworried along for some time moderately well. Don't be too ready to turn\ndown the things that have worked with some success, at any rate, for the\nthings that have never been tried.\"\n\nPeter smoked in silence. Then he said: \"Langton you're a bit different\nfrom what you were. In a way, it's you who have set me out on this\nracket, and it's you who encouraged me to try and get down to\nrock-bottom. You've always been a cautious old rotter, but you're more\nthan cautious now. Why?\"\n\nLangton leaned over and touched the other's tunic pocket in which lay\nJulie's note. Then he leaned back and went on with his cigarette.\n\nPeter flushed. \"It's too late,\" he said judicially, flicking off his ash.\n\n\"So? Well, I'm sorry, frankly--sorry for her and sorry for you. But if it\nis, I'll remember my own wisdom: it's no use meddling with such things.\nFor all that, you're a fool, Peter, as I told you last night.\"\n\n\"Just so. And I asked what was a fool.\"\n\n\"And I didn't answer. I reckon fools can be of many sorts. Your sort of\nfool chucks the world over for the quest of an ideal.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Peter quietly.\n\n\"You needn't. That fool is a real fool, and bigger than most. Ideals are\nideals, and one can't realise them. It's waste of time to try.\"\n\n\"Is it?\" said Peter. \"Well, at any rate, I don't know that I'm out after\nthem much. I don't see any. All I know is that I've looked in the likely\nplaces, and now I'll look in the unlikely.\"\n\nLangton ground his cigarette-end in his coffee-cup. \"You will,\" he said,\n\"whatever I say.... Have another drink? After all, there's no need to\n'turn down the empty glass' yet.\"\n\nThey did not see each other in the morning, and Peter made his way early\nto the hospital as arranged. The P.M.O. met him, and he was put in\nnominal charge of the three Red-Cross ambulance-cars. While he was\ntalking to the doctor the three nurses came out and got in, Julie not\nlooking in his direction; then he climbed up next the driver of the\nfirst car. \"Cheerio,\" said the P.M.O., and they were off.\n\nIt was a dull day, and mists hung over the water-meadows by the Somme.\nFor all that Peter enjoyed himself immensely. They ran swiftly through\nthe little villages, under the sweeping trees all new-budded into green,\nand soon had vistas of the distant sea. The driver of Peter's car was an\nobservant fellow, and he knew something of gardening. It was he who\npointed out that the fruit-trees had been indifferently pruned or not\npruned at all, and that there were fields no longer under the plough that\nhad been plainly so not long before. In a word, the country bore its war\nscars, although it needed a clever eye to see them.\n\nBut Peter had little thought for this. Now and again, at a corner, he\nwould glance back, his mind on Julie in the following car, while every\nchurch tower gave him pause for thought. He tried to draw the man beside\nhim on religion, but without any success, though he talked freely enough\nof other things. He was for the Colonies after the war, he said. He'd\nknocked about a good deal in France, and the taste for travel had come to\nhim. Canada appeared a land of promise; one could get a farm easily, and\nhis motor knowledge would be useful on a farm these days. Yes, he had a\npal out there, a Canadian who had done his bit and been invalided out of\nit. They corresponded, and he expected to get in with him, the one's\nlocal knowledge eking out the other's technical. No, he wasn't for\nmarrying yet awhile; he'd wait till he'd got a place for the wife and\nkiddies. Then he would. The thought made him expand a bit, and Peter\nsmiled to himself as he thought of his conversation with Langton over the\nfamily group. It struck him to test the man, and as they passed a wayside\nCalvary, rudely painted, he drew his attention to it. \"What do you think\nof that?\" he asked.\n\nThe man glanced at it, and then away. \"It's all right for them as like\nit,\" he said. \"Religion's best in a church, it seems to me. I've seen\nchaps mock at them crucifixes, sir, same as they wouldn't if they'd only\nbeen in church.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Peter; \"but I suppose some men have been helped by them who\nnever would have been if they had only been in church. But don't you\nthink they're rather gaudy?\"\n\n\"Gaudy, sir? Meanin' 'ighly painted? No, not as I knows on. They're more\nlike what happened, I reckon, than them brass crosses we have in our\nchurches.\"\n\nThey ran into Eu for lunch, and drew up in the market-square. Peter\nwent round to the girls' car, greeted Julie, and was introduced. He\nled them to an old inn in the square, and they sat down to luncheon\nin very good humour. The other girls were ordinary enough, and Julie\nrather subdued for her. Afterwards they spent an hour in the church and\na picture-postcard shop, and it was there that Julie whispered: \"Go on\nin your own car. At Dieppe, go to the Hôtel Trois Poissons and wait for\nme. I found out yesterday that a woman I know is a doctor in Dieppe, and\nshe lives there. I'll get leave easily to call. Then I can see you. If\nwe travel together these girls'll talk; they're just the sort.\"\n\nPeter nodded understanding, and they drifted apart. He went out to see if\nthe cars were ready and returned to call the nurses, and in a few minutes\nthey were off again.\n\nThe road now ran through forests nearly all the way, except where\nvillages had cleared a space around them, as was plain to see. They\ncrossed little streams, and finally came downhill through the forest into\nthe river valley that leads to Dieppe. It was still early, and Peter\nstopped the cars to suggest that they might have a look at the castle of\nArques-le-Bataille. The grand old pile kept them nearly an hour, and they\nwandered about the ruins to their hearts' content. Julie would climb a\nbuttress of the ancient keep when their guide had gone on with the\nothers, and Peter went up after her. She was as lissom as a boy and\nseemingly as strong, swinging up by roots of ivy and the branches of a\nnear tree, in no wise impeded by her short skirts. From the top one had,\nindeed, a glorious view. The weather had cleared somewhat, and one could\nsee every bit of the old castle below, the village at its feet, and the\nforest across the little stream out of which the Duke of Mayenne's\ninfantry had debouched that day of battle from which the village took\nits name.\n\n\"They had some of the first guns in the castle, which was held for Henry\nof Navarre,\" explained Peter, \"and they did great execution. I suppose\nthey fired one stone shot in about every five minutes, and killed a man\nabout every half-hour. The enemy were more frightened than hurt, I should\nthink. Anyway, Henry won.\"\n\n\"Wasn't he the King who thought Paris worth more than a Mass?\" she\ndemanded.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Peter, watching her brown eyes as she stared out over the\nplain.\n\n\"I wonder what he thinks now,\" she said.\n\nHe laughed. \"You're likely to wonder,\" he said.\n\n\"Funny old days,\" said Julie. \"I suppose there were girls in this castle\nwatching the fight. I expect they cared more for the one man each\nhalf-hour the cannon hit than for either Paris or the Mass. That's the\nway of women, Peter, and a damned silly way it is! Come on, let's go.\nI'll get down first, if you please.\"\n\nOn the short road remaining Peter asked his chauffeur if he knew the\nTrois Poissons, and, finding that he did, had the direction pointed out.\nThey ran through the town to the hospital, and Peter handed his cars\nover. \"I'll sleep in town,\" he said. \"What time ought we to start in the\nmorning?\" He was told, and walked away. Julie had disappeared.\n\nHe found the Trois Poissons without difficulty, and made his way to the\nsitting-room, a queer room opening from the pavement direct on the one\nside, and from the hall of the hotel on the other. It had a table down\nthe middle, a weird selection of chairs, and a piano. A small woman was\nsitting in a chair reading the _Tatler_ and smoking. An empty glass\nstood beside her.\n\nShe looked up as he came in, and he noticed R.A.M.C. badges.\n\"Good-evening,\" he said cheerily.\n\n\"Good-evening, padre,\" she replied, plainly willing to talk. \"Where have\nyou sprung from?\"\n\n\"Abbeville via Eu in a convoy of Red Cross cars,\" he said, \"and I feel\nlike a sun-downer. Won't you have another with me?\"\n\n\"Sure thing,\" she said, and he ordered a couple from the French maid who\ncame in answer to his ring. \"Do you live here?\" he asked.\n\n\"For my sins I do,\" she said. \"I doctor Waac's, and I don't think much of\nit. A finer, heartier lot of women I never saw. Epsom salts is all they\nwant. A child could do it.\"\n\nPeter laughed. \"Well, I don't see why you should grumble,\" he said.\n\n\"Don't you? Where's the practice? This business out here is the best\nchance for doctors in a lifetime, and I have to strip strapping girls\nhopelessly and endlessly.\"\n\n\"You do, do you?\" said a voice in the doorway, and there stood Julie.\n\"Well, at any rate you oughtn't to talk about it like that to my\ngentleman friends, especially padres. How do you do, my dear?\"\n\n\"Julie, by all that's holy! Where have you sprung from?\"\n\nShe glanced from one to the other. \"From Abbeville via Eu in a convoy of\nRed Cross cars, I dare bet,\" she said.\n\n\"Julie, you're beyond me. If you weren't so strong I'd smack you, but as\nit is, give me another kiss. _And_ introduce us. There may as well be\npropriety somewhere.\"\n\nThey sorted themselves out and sat down. \"What do you think of my rig?\"\ndemanded Dr. Melville (as Julie had introduced her).\n\n\"Toppin',\" said Julie critically. \"But what in the world is it? Chiefly\nWaac, with three pukka stars and an R.A.M.C. badge. Teanie, how dare you\ndo it?\"\n\n\"I dare do all that doth become a woman,\" she answered complacently. \"And\nit doth, doth it not? Skirt's a trifle short, perhaps,\" she added,\nsticking out a leg and examining the effect critically, \"but upper's\neminently satisfactory.\"\n\nJulie leaned over and prodded her. \"No corsets?\" she inquired innocently.\n\n\"Julie, you're positively indecent. You must have tamed your padre\ncompletely. You're not married by any chance?\" she added suddenly.\n\nJulie screamed with laughter. \"Oh, Teanie, you'll be the death of me,\"\nshe said at last. \"Solomon, are we married? I don't think so, Teanie.\nThere's never no telling these days, but I can't recollect it.\"\n\n\"Well, it strikes me you ought to be if you're jogging round the country\ntogether,\" said the other, her eyes twinkling. \"But if you're not, take\nwarning, padre. A girl that talks about corsets in public isn't\nrespectable, especially as she doesn't wear them herself, except in the\nevening, for the sake of other things. Or she used not to. But perhaps\nyou know?\"\n\nPeter tried to look comfortable, but he was completely out of his depth.\nHe finished his drink with a happy inspiration, and ordered another. That\ndown, he began to feel more capable of entering into the spirit of these\ntwo. They were the sort he wanted to know, both of them, women about as\ndifferent from those he had met as they could possibly be.\n\nAnother man dropped in after a while, so the talk became general. The\natmosphere was very free and easy, bantering, careless, jolly, and Peter\nexpanded in it. Julie led them all. She was never at a loss, and\napparently had no care in the world.\n\nThe two girls and Peter went together to dinner and sat at the same\ntable. They talked a good deal together, and Peter gathered they had come\nto know each other at a hospital in England. They were full of\nreminiscences.\n\n\"Do you remember ducking Pockett?\" Teanie asked Julie.\n\n\"Lor', I should think I do! Tell Peter. He won't be horrified unless you\ngo into details. If I cough, Solomon, you're to change the subject. Carry\non, Teanie.\"\n\n\"Well, Pockett was a nurse of about the last limit. She was fearfully\nsnobby, which nobody of that name ought to be, and she ruled her pros.\nwith a rod of iron. I expect that was good for them, and I say nothing\nas to that, but she was a beast to the boys. We had some poor chaps in\nwho were damnably knocked about, and one could do a lot for them in\nroundabout ways. Regulations are made to be broken in some cases, I\nthink. But she was a holy terror. Sooner than call her, the boys would\nendure anything, but some of us knew, and once she caught Julie here...\"\n\n\"It wasn't--it was you, Teanie.\"\n\n\"Oh, well, one of us, anyway, in her ward when she was on night duty,\nsitting with a poor chap who pegged out a few days after. It soothed him\nto sit and hold her hand. Well, anyway, she was furious and reported it.\nThere was a bit of a row--had to be, I suppose, as it was against\nregulations--but thank God the P.M.O. knew his job, so there was only a\nstrafe with the tongue in the cheek. However, we swore revenge, and we\nhad it--eh, Julie?\"\n\n\"We did. Go on. It was you who thought of it.\"\n\n\"Well, we filled a bath with tepid water and then went to her room one\nnight. She was asleep, and never heard us. We had a towel round her head\nin two twinks, and carried her by the legs and arms to the bathroom.\nJulie had her legs, and held 'em well up, so that down went her head\nunder water. She couldn't yell then. When we let her up, I douched her\nwith cold water, and then we bolted. We saw to it that there wasn't a\ntowel in the bathroom, and we locked her bedroom door. Oh, lor', poor\nsoul, but it was funny! She met an orderly in the corridor, and he nearly\nhad a fit, and I don't wonder, for her wet nightie clung to her figure\nlike a skin. She had to try half a dozen rooms before she got anyone to\nhelp her, and then, when she got back, we'd ragged her room to blazes.\nShe never said a word, and left soon after. Ever hear of her again,\nJulie?\"\n\n\"No,\" said she, looking more innocent than ever, Peter thought; \"but I\nexpect she's made good somewhere. She must have had something in her or\nshe'd have kicked up a row.\"\n\nMiss Melville was laughing silently. \"You innocent babe unborn,\" she\nsaid; \"never shall I forget how you held....\"\n\n\"Come on, Captain Graham,\" said Julie, getting up; \"you've got to see me\nhome, and I want a nice walk by the sea-front.\"\n\nThey went out together, and stood at the hotel door in the little street.\nThere was a bit of a moon, with clouds scurrying by, and when it shone\nthe road was damp and glistening in the moonlight. \"What a heavenly\nnight!\" said Julie. \"Come on with us along the sea-front, Teanie--do!\"\n\nMiss Melville smiled up at them. \"I reckon you'd prefer to be alone,\" she\nsaid.\n\nPeter glanced at Julie, and then protested. \"No,\" he said; \"do come on,\"\nand Julie rewarded him with a smile.\n\nSo they set out together. On the front the wind was higher, lashing the\nwaves, and the moonlight shone fitfully on the distant cliffs, the\nharbour mouth, and the sea. The two girls clung together, and as Peter\nwalked by Julie she took his arm. Conversation was difficult as they\nbattled their way along the promenade. There was hardly a soul about, and\nPeter felt the night to fit his mood.\n\nThey went up once and down again, and at the Casino grounds Teanie\nstopped them. \"'Nough,\" she said; \"I'm for home and bed. You two dears\ncan finish up without me.\"\n\n\"Oh, we must see you home,\" said Peter.\n\nThe doctor laughed. \"Think I shall get stolen?\" she demanded. \"Someone\nwould have to get up pretty early for that. No, padre, I'm past the need\nof being escorted, thanks. Good-night. Be good, Julie. We'll meet again\nsometime, I hope. If not, keep smiling. Cheerio.\"\n\nShe waved her hand and was gone in the night. \"If there was ever a\nplucky, unselfish, rattling good woman, there she goes,\" said Julie.\n\"I've known her sit up night after night with wounded men when she was\nworking like a horse all day. I've known her to help a drunken Tommy\ninto a cab and get him home, and quiet his wife into the bargain. I saw\nher once walk off out of the Monico with a boy of a subaltern, who didn't\nknow what he was doing, and take him to her own flat, and put him to bed,\nand get him on to the leave-train in time in the morning. She'd give away\nher last penny, and you wouldn't know she'd done it. And yet she's not\nthe sort of woman you'd choose to run a mother's meeting, would you,\nSolomon?\"\n\n\"Sure thing I wouldn't,\" said Peter, \"not in my old parish, but I'm not\nso sure I wouldn't in my new one.\"\n\n\"What's your new one?\" asked Julie curiously.\n\n\"Oh, it hasn't a name,\" said Peter, \"but it's pretty big. Something after\nthe style of John Wesley's parish, I reckon. And I'm gradually getting it\nsized up.\"\n\n\"Where do I come in, Solomon?\" demanded Julie.\n\nThey were passing by the big Calvary at the harbour gates, and there was\na light there. He stopped and turned so that the light fell on her. She\nlooked up at him, and so they stood a minute. He could hear the lash of\nthe waves, and the wind drumming in the rigging of the flagstaff near\nthem. Then, deliberately, he bent down, and kissed her on the lips. \"I\ndon't know, Julie,\" he said, \"but I believe you have the biggest part,\nsomehow.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nAll that it is necessary to know of Hilda's return letter to Peter ran as\nfollows:\n\n\"My Dear Boy,\n\n\"Your letter from Abbeville reached me the day before yesterday, and I\nhave thought about nothing else since. It is plain to me that it is no\nuse arguing with you and no good reproaching you, for once you get an\nidea into your head nothing but bitter experience will drive it out. But,\nPeter, you must see that so far as I am concerned you are asking me to\nchoose between you and your strange ideas and all that is familiar and\ndear in my life. You can't honestly expect me to believe that my Church\nand my parents and my teachers are all wrong, and that, to put it mildly,\nthe very strange people you appear to be meeting in France are all right.\nMy dear Peter, do try and look at it sensibly. The story you told me of\nthe death of Lieutenant Jenks was terrible--terrible; it brings the war\nhome in all its ghastly reality; but really, you know, it was his fault\nand not yours, and still less the fault of the Church of England, that he\ndid not want you when he came to die. If a man lives without God, he can\nhardly expect to find Him at the point of sudden death. What you say\nabout Christ, too, utterly bewilders me. Surely our Church's teachings in\nthe Catechism and the Prayer-Book is Christian teaching, isn't it?\nNothing is perfect on earth, and the Church is human, but our Church\nis certainly the best I know of. It is liberal, active, moderate, and--I\ndon't like the word, but after all it is a good one--respectable. I don't\nknow much about these things, but surely you of all people don't want to\ngo shouting in the street like a Salvation Army Captain. I can't see that\nthat is more 'in touch with reality.' Peter, what do you mean? Are not\nSt. John's, and the Canon, and my people, and myself, real? Surely,\nPeter, our love is real, isn't it? Oh, how can you doubt that?\n\n\"Darling boy, don't you think you are over-strained and over-worried? You\nare in a strange country, among strange people, at a very peculiar time.\nWar always upsets everything and makes things abnormal. London, even,\nisn't normal, but, as the Canon said the other day, a great many of the\nthings people do just now are due to reaction against strain and anxiety.\nCan't you see this? Isn't there any clergyman you can go and talk to?\nYour Presbyterian and other new friends and your visits to Roman Catholic\nchurches can't be any real help.\n\n\"Peter, dear, for my sake, do, _do_ try to see things like this. I _hate_\nthat bit in your letter about publicans and sinners. How can a clergyman\nexpect _them_ to help _him_? Surely you ought to avoid such people, not\nseek their company. It is so like you to get hold of a text or two and\nrun it to death. It's not that I don't _trust_ you, but you are so easily\ninfluenced, and you may equally easily go and do something that will\nseparate us and ruin your life. Peter, I hate to write like this, but I\ncan't help it....\"\n\nPeter let the sheets fall from his hands and stared out of the little\nwindow. The gulls were screaming and fighting over some refuse in the\nharbour, and he watched the beat of their wings, fascinated. If only he,\ntoo, could catch the wind and be up and away like that!\n\nHe jumped up and paced up and down the floor restlessly, and he told\nhimself that Hilda was right and he was a cad and worse. Julie's kiss on\nhis lips burned there yet. That at any rate was wrong; by any standards\nhe had no right to behave so. How could he kiss her when he was pledged\nto Hilda--Hilda to whom everyone had looked up, the capable, lady-like,\nirreproachable Hilda, the Hilda to whom Park Lane and St. John's were\nsuch admirable setting. And who was he, after all, to set aside all that\nfor which both those things stood?\n\nAnd yet.... He sat down by the little table and groaned.\n\n\"What the dickens is the matter with you, padre?\"\n\nPeter started and looked round. In the doorway stood Pennell, regarding\nhim with amusement. \"Here am I trying to read, and you pacing up and down\nlike a wild beast. What the devil's up?\"\n\n\"The devil himself, that's what's up,\" said Peter savagely. \"Look here,\nPen, come on down town and let's have a spree. I hate this place and this\ninfernal camp. It gets on my nerves. I must have a change. Will you come?\nIt's my do.\"\n\n\"I'm with you, old thing. I know what you feel like; I get like that\nmyself sometimes. It's a pleasure to see that you're so human. We'll go\ndown town and razzle-dazzle for once. I'm off duty till to-night. I ought\nto sleep, I suppose, but I can't, so come away with you. I won't be a\nsecond.\"\n\nHe disappeared. Peter stood for a moment, then slipped his tunic off and\nput on another less distinctive of his office. He crossed to the desk,\nunlocked it, and reached for a roll of notes, shoving them into his\npocket. Then he put on his cap, took a stick from the corner, and went\nout into the passage. But there he remembered, and came quickly back.\nHe folded Hilda's letter and put it away in a drawer; then he went out\nagain. \"Are you ready, Pennell?\" he called.\n\nThe two of them left camp and set out across the docks. As they crossed a\nbridge a one-horse cab came into the road from a side-street and turned\nin their direction. \"Come on,\" said Peter. \"Anything is better than this\ninfernal walk over this _pavé_ always. Let's hop in.\"\n\nThey stopped the man, who asked where to drive to.\n\n\"Let's go to the Bretagne first and get a drink,\" said Pennell.\n\n\"Right,\" said Peter--\"any old thing. Hôtel de la Bretagne,\" he called to\nthe driver.\n\nThey set off at some sort of a pace, and Pennell leaned back with a\nlaugh. \"It's a funny old world, Graham,\" he said. \"One does get fed-up at\ntimes. Why sitting in a funeral show like this cab and having a drink in\na second-rate pub should be any amusement, I don't know. But it is.\nYou're infectious, my boy. I begin to feel like a rag myself. What shall\nwe do?\"\n\n\"The great thing,\" said Peter judiciously, \"is not to know what one is\ngoing to do, but just to take anything that comes along. I remember at\nthe 'Varsity one never set out to rag anything definitely. You went out\nand you saw a bobby and you took his hat, let us say. You cleared, and he\nafter you. Anything might happen then.\"\n\n\"I should think so,\" said Pennell.\n\n\"I remember once walking home with a couple of men, and one of them\nsuggested dousing all the street lamps in the road, which was a\nresidential one leading into town. There wasn't anything in it, but we\ndid it. One man put his back against a post, while the second went on to\nthe next post. Then the third man mounted the first man's back, shoved\nout the light, jumped clear, and ran on past the next lamp-post to the\nthird. The first man jumped on No. 2's back and doused his lamp, and so\non. We did the street in a few minutes, and then a constable came into it\nat the top. He probably thought he was drunk, then he spotted lights\ngoing out, and like an ass he blew his whistle. We were round a corner in\nno time, and then turned and ran back to see if we could offer\nassistance!\"\n\n\"Some gag!\" chuckled Pennell; \"but I hope you won't go on that sort\nof racket to-night. It would be a little more serious if we were\ncaught.... Also, these blighted gendarmes would probably start firing,\nor some other damned thing.\"\n\n\"They would,\" said Peter; \"besides, that doesn't appeal to me now. I'm\ngetting too old, or else my tastes have become depraved.\"\n\nThe one-horse cab stopped with a jerk. \"Hop out,\" said Peter. He settled\nthe score, and the two of them entered the hotel and passed through into\nthe private bar.\n\n\"What is it to be?\" demanded Pennell.\n\n\"Cocktails to-day, old son,\" said Peter; \"I want bucking up. What do you\nsay to martinis?\"\n\nThe other agreed, and they moved over to the bar. A monstrously fat woman\nstood behind it, like some bloated spider, and a thin, weedy-looking girl\nassisted her. A couple of men were already there. It was too early for\nofficial drinks, but the Bretagne knew no law.\n\nThey ordered their drinks, and stood there while madame compounded them\nand put in the cherries. Another man came in, and Peter recognised the\nAustralian Ferrars, whom he had met before. He introduced Pennell and\ncalled for another martini.\n\n\"So you frequent this poison-shop, do you?\" said Ferrars.\n\n\"Not much,\" laughed Peter, \"but it's convenient.\"\n\n\"It is, and it's a good sign when a man like you wants a drink. I'd\nsooner listen to your sermons any day than some chaps' I know.\"\n\n\"Subject barred here,\" said Pennell. \"But here's the very best to you,\nGraham, for all that.\"\n\n\"Same here,\" said Ferrars, and put down his empty glass.\n\nThe talk became general. There was nothing whatever in it--mild chaffing,\na yarn or two, a guarded description by Peter of his motor drive from\nAbbeville, and then more drinks. And so on. The atmosphere was warm and\ngenial, but Peter wondered inwardly why he liked it, and he did not like\nit so much that Pennell's \"Well, what about it? Let's go on, Graham,\nshall we?\" found him unready. The two said a general good-bye, promised\nmadame to look in again, and sauntered out.\n\nThey crossed the square in front of Travalini's, lingered at the\nflower-stalls, refused the girls' pressure to buy, and strolled on.\n\"I'm sick of Travalini's,\" said Pennell. \"Don't let's go in there.\"\n\n\"So am I,\" said Peter. \"Let's stroll down towards the sea.\"\n\nThey turned down a side-street, and stood for a few minutes looking into\na picture and book shop. At that moment quick footsteps sounded on the\npavement, and Pennell glanced round.\n\nTwo girls passed them, obviously sisters. They were not flashily dressed\nexactly, but there was something in their furs and their high-heeled,\nhigh-laced boots that told its own story. \"By Jove, that's a pretty\ngirl!\" exclaimed Pennell; \"let's follow them.\"\n\nPeter laughed; he was reckless, but not utterly so. \"If you like,\" he\nsaid. \"I'm on for any rag. We'll take them for a drink, but I stop at\nthat, mind, Pen.\"\n\n\"Sure thing,\" said Pennell. \"But come on; we'll miss them.\"\n\nThey set out after the girls, who, after one glance back, walked on as if\nthey did not know they were being followed. But they walked slowly, and\nit was easy for the two men to catch them up.\n\nPeter slackened a few paces behind. \"Look here, Pen,\" he said, \"what the\ndeuce are we going to do? They'll expect more than a drink, you know.\"\n\n\"Oh no, they won't, not so early as this. It's all in the way of business\nto them, too. Let's pass them first,\" he suggested, \"and then slacken\ndown and wait for them to speak.\"\n\nPeter acquiesced, feeling rather more than an ass, but the drinks had\ngone slightly to his head. They executed their share of the maneuver,\nPennell looking at the girls and smiling as he did so. But the two\nquickened their pace and passed the officers without a word.\n\n\"If you ask me, this is damned silly,\" said Peter. \"Let's chuck it.\"\n\n\"No, no; wait a bit,\" said Pennell excitedly. \"You'll see what they'll\ndo. It's really an amusing study in human nature. Look! I told you so.\nThey live there.\"\n\nThe girls had crossed the street, and were entering a house. One of them\nunlocked the door, and they both disappeared. \"There,\" said Peter, \"that\nfinishes it. We've lost them.\"\n\n\"Have we?\" said his companion. \"Come on over.\"\n\nThey crossed the street and walked up to the door. It was open and\nperhaps a foot ajar. Pennell pushed it wide and walked in. \"Come on,\" he\nsaid again. Peter followed reluctantly, but curious. He was seeing a new\nside of life, he thought grimly.\n\nBefore them a flight of stairs led straight up to a landing, but there\nwas no sign of the girls. \"What's next?\" demanded Peter. \"We'll be fired\nout in two twos if nothing worse happens. Suppose they're decent girls\nafter all; what would you say?\"\n\n\"I'd ask if Mlle. Lucienne lived here,\" said Pennell, \"and apologise\nprofusely when I found she didn't. But you can't make a mistake in this\nstreet, Graham. I'm going up. It's the obvious thing, and probably what\nthey wanted. Coming?\"\n\nHe set off to mount the stairs, and Peter, reassured, followed him, at a\nfew paces. When he reached the top, Pennell was already entering an open\ndoor.\n\n\"How do you do, ma chérie?\" said one of the girls, smiling, and holding\nout a hand.\n\nPeter looked round curiously. The room was fairly decently furnished in a\nforeign middle-class fashion, half bedroom, half sitting-room. One of the\ngirls sat on the arm of a big chair, the other was greeting his friend.\nShe was the one he had fancied, but a quick glance attracted Peter\nto the other and elder. He was in for it now, and he was determined to\nplay up. He crossed the floor, and smiled down at the girl on the arm of\nthe chair.\n\n\"So you 'ave come,\" she said in broken English. \"I told Lucienne that you\nwould not.\"\n\n\"Lucienne!\" exclaimed Peter, and looked back at Pennell.\n\nThat traitor laughed, and seated himself on the edge of the bed, drawing\nthe other girl to him. \"I'm awfully sorry, Graham,\" he said; \"but I\ncouldn't help it. You wanted to see life, and you'd have shied off if I\nhadn't played a game. I do just know this little girl, and jolly nice she\nis too. Give me a kiss, Lulu.\"\n\nThe girl obeyed, her eyes sparkling. \"It's not proper before monsieur,\"\nshe said. \"'E is--how do you say?--shocked?\"\n\nShe seated herself on Pennell's knee, and, putting an arm round his neck,\nkissed him again, looking across at Peter mischievously. \"We show 'im\nFrench kiss,\" she added to Pennell, and pouted out her lips to his.\n\n\"Well, now you 'ave come, what do you want?\" demanded the girl on the arm\nof Peter's chair. \"Sit down,\" she said imperiously, patting the seat,\n\"and talk to me.\"\n\nPeter laughed more lightly than he felt. \"Well, I want a drink,\" he said,\nat random. \"Pen,\" he called across the room, \"what about that drink?\" The\ngirl by him reached over and touched a bell. As she did so, Peter saw the\ncurls that clustered on her neck and caught the perfume of her hair. It\nwas penetrating and peculiar, but not distasteful, and it did all that it\nwas meant to do. He bent, and kissed the back of her neck, still\nmarvelling at himself.\n\nShe straightened herself, smiling. \"That is better. You aren't so cold as\nyou pretended, chérie. Now kiss me properly,\" and she held up her face.\n\nPeter kissed her lips. Before he knew it, a pair of arms were thrown\nabout his neck, and he was being half-suffocated with kisses. He tore\nhimself away, disgusted and ashamed.\n\n\"No!\" he cried sharply, but knowing that it was too late.\n\nThe girl threw herself back, laughing merrily, \"Oh, you are funny!\" she\nsaid. \"Lucienne, take your boy away; I want to talk to mine.\"\n\nBefore he could think of a remonstrance, it was done. Pennell and the\nother girl got up from the bed where they had been whispering together,\nand left the room. \"Pennell!\" called Peter, too late again, jumping up.\nThe girl ran round him, pushed the door to, locked it, and dropped the\nkey down the neck of her dress. \"Voila!\" she said gaily.\n\nThere came a knock on the door. \"Non, non!\" she cried in French. \"Take\nthe wine to Mlle. Lucienne; I am busy.\"\n\nPeter walked across the room to her. \"Give me the key,\" he said, holding\nout his hand, and changing his tactics. \"Please do. I won't go till my\nfriend comes back. I promise.\"\n\nThe girl looked at him. \"You promise? But you will 'ave to find it.\"\n\nHe smiled and nodded, and she walked deliberately to the bed, undid the\nfront of her costume, and slipped it off. Bare necked and armed, she\nturned to him, holding open the front of her chemise. \"Down there,\" she\nsaid.\n\nIt was a strange moment and a strange thing, but a curious courage came\nback to Peter in that second. Without hesitation, he put his hand down\nand sought for the key against her warm body. He found it, and help it\nup, smiling. Then he moved to the door, pushed the key in the keyhole,\nand turned again to the girl. \"There!\" he said simply.\n\nWith a gesture of abandon, she threw herself on the bed, propping her\ncheek on her hand and staring at him. He sat down where Pennell had sat,\nbut made no attempt to touch her, leaning, instead, back and away against\nthe iron bed-post. She pulled up her knees, flung her arms back, and\nlaughed. \"And now, monsieur?\" she said.\n\nPeter had never felt so cool in his life. His thoughts raced, but\nsteadily, as if he had dived into cold, clear water. He smiled again,\nunhesitatingly, but sadly. \"Dear,\" he said deliberately, \"listen to me. I\nhave cheated you by coming here to-day, though you shan't suffer for it.\nI did not want anything, and I don't now. But I'm glad I've come, even\nthough you do not understand. I don't want to do a bit what my friend is\ndoing. I don't know why, but I don't. I'm engaged to a girl in England,\nbut it's not because of that. I'm a chaplain too--a curé, you know--in\nthe English Army; but it's not because of that.\"\n\n\"Protestant?\" demanded the girl on the bed.\n\nHe nodded. \"Ah, well,\" she said, \"the Protestant ministers have wives.\nThey are men; it is different with priests. If your fiancée is wise, she\nwouldn't mind if you love me a little. She is in England; I am here--is\nit not so? You love me now; again, perhaps, once or twice. Then it is\nfinished. You do not tell your fiancée and she does not know. It is\nno matter. Come on, chérie!\"\n\nShe held out her hands and threw her head back on the pillow.\n\nPeter smiled again. \"You do not understand,\" he said. \"And nor do I, but\nI must be different from some men. I do not want to.\"\n\n\"Ah, well,\" she exclaimed brightly, sitting up, \"another time! Give me my\ndress, monsieur le curé.\"\n\nHe got up and handed it to her. \"Tell me,\" he said, \"do you like this\nsort of life?\"\n\nShe shrugged her white shoulders indifferently. \"Sometimes,\" she\nsaid--\"sometimes not. There are good boys and bad boys. Some are rough,\ncruel, mean; some are kind, and remember that it costs much to live\nthese days, and one must dress nicely. See,\" she said deliberately,\nshowing him, \"it is lace, fine lace; I pay fifty francs in Paris!\"\n\n\"I will give you that,\" said Peter, and he placed the note on the bed.\n\nShe stared at it and at him. \"Oh, I love you!\" she cried. \"You are kind!\nAh, now, if I could but love you always!\"\n\n\"Always?\" he demanded.\n\n\"Yes, always, always, while you are here, in Le Havre. I would have no\nother boy but you. Ah, if you would! You do not know how one tires of the\nmusic-hall, the drinks, the smiles! I would do just all you please--be\ngay, be solemn, talk, be silent, just as you please! Oh, if you would!\"\n\nHalf in and half out of her dress, she stood there, pleading. Peter\nlooked closely at the little face with its rouge and powder.\n\n\"You hate that!\" she exclaimed, with quick intuition. \"See, it is gone. I\nuse it no more, only a leetle, leetle, for the night.\" And she ran across\nto the basin, dipped a little sponge in water, passed it over her face,\nand turned to him triumphantly.\n\nPeter sighed. \"Little girl,\" he said sadly, hardly knowing that he spoke.\n\"I cannot save myself: how can I save you?\"\n\n\"Pouf!\" she cried. \"Save! What do you mean?\" She drew herself up with an\nabsurd gesture. \"You think me a bad girl? No, I am not bad; I go to\nchurch. Le bon Dieu made us as we are; it is nécessaire.\"\n\nThey stood before each other, a strange pair, the product of a strange\nage. God knows what the angels made of it. But at any rate Peter was\nhonest. He thought of Julie, and he would not cast a stone.\n\nThere came a light knock at the door. The girl disregarded it, and ran to\nhim. \"You will come again?\" she said in low tones. \"Promise me that you\nwill! I will not ask you for anything; you can do as you please; but come\nagain! Do come again!\"\n\nPeter passed his hand over her hair. \"I will come if I can,\" he said;\n\"but the Lord knows why.\"\n\nThe knock came again, a little louder. The girl smiled and held her face\nup. \"Kiss me,\" she demanded.\n\nHe complied, and she darted away, fumbling with her dress. \"I come,\" she\ncalled, and opened the door. Lucienne and Pennell came in, and the two\nmen exchanged glances. Then Pennell looked away. Lucienne glanced at them\nand shrugged her shoulders. \"Come, Graham,\" said Pennell; \"let's get out!\nGood-bye, you two.\"\n\nThe pair of them went down and out in silence. No one had seen them come,\nand there was no one to see them go. Peter glanced at the number and made\na mental note of it, and they set off down the street.\n\nPresently Pennell laughed, \"I played you a dirty trick, Graham,\" he said,\n\"I'm sorry.\"\n\n\"You needn't be,\" said Peter; \"I'm very glad I went.\"\n\n\"Why?\" said Pennell curiously, glancing sideways at him. \"You _are_ a\nqueer fellow, Graham.\" But there was a note of relief in his tone.\n\nPeter said nothing, but walked on. \"Where next?\" demanded Pennell.\n\n\"It looks as if you are directing this outfit,\" said Peter; \"I'm in your\nhands.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Pennell; \"I know.\"\n\nThey took a street running parallel to the docks, and entered an American\nbar. Peter glanced round curiously. \"I've never been here before,\" he\nsaid.\n\n\"Probably not,\" said Pennell. \"It's not much at this time of the year,\nbut jolly cool in the summer. And you can get first-class cocktails. I\nwant something now; what's yours?\"\n\n\"I'll leave it to you,\" said Peter.\n\nHe sat down at a little table rather in the corner and lit a cigarette.\nThe place was well lighted, and by means of mirrors, coloured-glass\nornaments, paper decorations, and a few palms, it looked in its own way\nsmart. Two or three officers were drinking at the bar, sitting on high\nstools, and Pennell went up to give his order. He brought two glasses\nto Peter's table and sat down. \"What fools we are, padre!\" he said. \"I\nsometimes think that the man who gets simply and definitely tight when he\nfeels he wants a breather is wiser than most of us. We drink till we're\nexcited, and then we drink to get over it. And I suppose the devil sits\nand grins. Well, it's a weary world, and there isn't any good road out of\nit. I sometimes wish I'd stopped a bullet earlier on in the day. And yet\nI don't know. We do get some excitement. Let's go to a music-hall\nto-night.\"\n\n\"What about dinner?\"\n\n\"Oh, get a quiet one in a decent hotel. I'll have to clear out at\nhalf-time if you don't mind.\"\n\n\"Not a bit,\" said Peter. \"Half will be enough for me, I think. But let's\nhave dinner before we've had more of these things.\"\n\nThe bar was filling up. A few girls came and went. Pennell nodded to a\nman or two, and finished his glass. And they went off to dinner.\n\nThe music-hall was not much of a show, but it glittered, and people\nobviously enjoyed it. Peter watched the audience as much as the stage.\nQuite respectable French families were there, and there was nothing done\nthat might not have been done on an English stage--perhaps less, but the\nwords were different. The women as well as the men screamed with\nlaughter, flushed of face, but an old fellow, with his wife and daughter,\nobviously from the country, sat as stiffly as an English farmer through\nit all. The daughter glanced once at the two officers, but then looked\naway; she was well brought up. A half-caste Algerian, probably, came\non and danced really extraordinarily well, and a negro from the States,\nequally ready in French and English, sang songs which the audience\ndemanded. He was entirely master, however, and, conscious of his power,\nused it. No one in the place seemed to have heard of the colour-bar,\nexcept a couple of Americans, who got up and walked out when the comedian\nclasped a white girl round the waist in one of his songs. The negro made\nsome remark that Peter couldn't catch, and the place shook with laughter.\n\nAt half-time everyone flocked into a queer kind of semi-underground hall\nwhose walls were painted to represent a cave, dingy cork festoons and\n\"rocks\" adding to the illusion. Here, at long tables, everyone drank\ninnocuous French beer, that was really quite cool and good. It was rather\nlike part of an English bank holiday. Everybody spoke to everybody else,\nand there were no classes and distinctions. You could only get one glass\nof beer, for the simple reason that there were too many drinking and too\nfew supplying the drinks for more in the time.\n\n\"I must go,\" said Pennell, \"but don't you bother to come.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, I will,\" said Peter, and they got up together.\n\nIn the entrance-hall, however, a girl was apparently waiting for someone,\nand as they passed Peter recognised her. \"Louise!\" he exclaimed.\n\nShe smiled and held out her hand. Peter took it, and Pennell after him.\n\n\"Do you go now?\" she asked them. \"The concert is not half finished.\"\n\n\"I've got to get back to work,\" said Pennell, \"worse luck. It is la\nguerre, you know!\"\n\n\"Poor boy!\" said she gaily. \"And you?\" turning to Peter.\n\nMoved by an impulse, he shook his head. \"No,\" he said, \"I was only seeing\nhim home.\"\n\n\"Bien! See me home instead, then,\" said Louise.\n\n\"Nothing doing,\" said Peter, using a familiar phrase.\n\nShe laughed. \"Bah! cannot a girl have friends without that, eh? You have\na fiancée, 'ave you not? Oh yes, I remember--I remember very well. Come!\nI have done for to-day; I am tired. I will make you some coffee, and we\nshall talk. Is it not so?\"\n\nPeter looked at Pennell. \"Do you mind, Pen?\" he asked. \"I'd rather like\nto.\"\n\n\"Not a scrap,\" said the other cheerfully; \"wish I could come too. Ask me\nanother day, Louise, will you?\"\n\nShe regarded him with her head a little on one side. \"I do not know,\" she\nsaid. \"I do not think you would talk with me as he will. You like what\nyou can get from the girls of France now; but after, no more. Monsieur,\n'e is different. He want not quite the same. Oh, I know! Allons.\"\n\nPennell shrugged his shoulders. \"One for me,\" he said. \"Well, good-night.\nI hope you both enjoy yourselves.\"\n\nIn five minutes Peter and Louise were walking together down the street. A\nfew passers-by glanced at them, or especially at her, but she took no\nnotice, and Peter, in a little, felt the strangeness of it all much less.\nHe deliberately crossed once or twice to get between her and the road, as\nhe would have done with a lady, and moved slightly in front of her when\nthey encountered two drunken men. She chatted about nothing in\nparticular, and Peter thought to himself that he might almost have been\nescorting Hilda home. But if Hilda had seen him!\n\nShe ushered him into her flat. It was cosy and nicely furnished, very\ndifferent from that of the afternoon. A photograph or two stood about in\nsilver frames, a few easy-chairs, a little table, a bookshelf, and a\ncupboard. A fire was alight in the grate; Louise knelt down and poked it\ninto a flame.\n\n\"You shall have French coffee,\" she said. \"And I have even lait for you.\"\nShe put a copper kettle on the fire, and busied herself with cups and\nsaucers. These she arranged on the little table, and drew it near the\nfire. Then she offered him a cigarette from a gold case, and took one\nherself. \"Ah!\" she said, sinking back into a chair. \"Now we are, as you\nsay, comfy, is it not so? We can talk. Tell me how you like la France,\nand what you do.\"\n\nPeter tried, but failed rather miserably, and the shrewd French girl\nnoticed it easily enough. She all but interrupted him as he talked of\nAbbeville and the raid. \"Mon ami,\" she said, \"you have something on your\nmind. You do not want to talk of these things. Tell me.\"\n\nPeter looked into the kindly keen eyes. \"You are right, Louise,\" he said.\n\"This is a day of trouble for me.\"\n\nShe nodded. \"Tell me,\" she said again. \"But first, what is your name, mon\nami? It is hard to talk if one does not know even the name.\"\n\nHe hardly hesitated. It seemed natural to say it. \"Peter,\" he said.\n\nShe smiled, rolling the \"r.\" \"Peterr. Well, Peterr, go on.\"\n\n\"I'll tell you about to-day first,\" he said, and, once launched, did so\neasily. He told the little story well, and presently forgot the strange\nsurroundings. It was all but a confession, and surely one was never more\nstrangely made. And from the story he spoke of Julie, but concealed her\nidentity, and then he spoke of God. Louise hardly said a word. She poured\nout coffee in the middle, but that was all. At last he finished.\n\n\"Louise,\" he said, \"it comes to this: I've nothing left but Julie. It was\nshe restrained me this afternoon, I think. I'm mad for her; I want her\nand nothing else. But with her, somehow, I lose everything else I possess\nor ever thought I possessed.\" And he stopped abruptly, for she did not\nknow his business in life, and he had almost given it away.\n\nWhen he had finished she slipped a hand into his, and said no word.\nSuddenly she looked up. \"Peterr, mon ami,\" she said, \"listen to me. I\nwill tell you the story of Louise, of me. My father, he lived--oh, it\nmatters not; but he had some money, he was not poor. I went to a good\nschool, and I came home for the holidays. I had one sister older than\nme. Presently I grew up; I learnt much; I noticed. I saw there were\nterrible things, chez nous. My mother did not care, but I--I cared. I was\nmad. I spoke to my sister: it was no good. I spoke to my father, and,\ntruly, I thought he would kill me. He beat me--ah, terrible--and I ran\nfrom the house. I wept under the hedges: I said I would no more go 'ome.\nI come to a big city. I found work in a big shop--much work, little\nmoney--ah, how little! Then I met a friend: he persuade me, at last he\nkeep me--two months, three, or more; then comes the war. He is an\nofficer, and he goes. We kiss, we part--oui, he love me, that officer. I\npray for him: I think I nevair leave the church; but it is no good. He is\ndead. Then I curse le bon Dieu. They know me in that place: I can do\nnothing unless I will go to an 'otel--to be for the officers, you\nunderstand? I say, Non. I sell my things and I come here. Here I do\nwell--you understand? I am careful; I have now my home. But this is what\nI tell you, Peterr: one does wrong to curse le bon Dieu. He is wise--ah,\nhow wise!--it is not for me to say. And good--ah, Jesu! how good! You\nthink I do not know; I, how should I know? But I know. I do not\nunderstand. For me, I am caught; I am like the bird in the cage. I cannot\nget out. So I smile, I laugh--and I wait.\"\n\nShe ceased. Peter was strangely moved, and he pressed the hand he held\nalmost fiercely. The tragedy of her life seemed so great that he hardly\ndare speak of his own. But: \"What has it to do with me?\" he demanded.\n\nShe gave a little laugh. \"'Ow should I say?\" she said. \"But you think God\nnot remember you, and, Peterr, He remember all the time.\"\n\n\"And Julie?\" quizzed Peter after a moment.\n\nLouise shrugged her shoulders. \"This love,\" she said, \"it is one great\nthing. For us women it is perhaps the only great thing, though your\nEnglish women are blind, are dead, they do not see. Julie, she is as us,\nI think. She is French inside. La pauvre petite, she is French in the\nheart.\"\n\n\"Well?\" demanded Peter again.\n\n\"C'est tout, mon ami. But I am sorry for Julie.\"\n\n\"Louise,\" said Peter impulsively, \"you're better than I--a thousand\ntimes. I don't know how to thank you.\" And he lifted her hand to his\nlips.\n\nHe hardly touched it. She sprang up, withdrawing it. \"Ah, non, non,\"\nshe cried. \"You must not. You forget. It is easy for you, for you are\ngood--yes, so good. You think I did not notice in the street, but I see.\nYou treat me like a lady, and now you kiss my hand, the hand of the girl\nof the street.... Non, non!\" she protested vehemently, her eyes alight.\n\"I would kiss your feet!\"\n\nOutside, in the darkened street, Peter walked slowly home. At the gate of\nthe camp he met Arnold, returning from a visit to another mess. \"Hullo!\"\nhe called to Peter, \"and where have you been?\"\n\nPeter looked at him for a moment without replying. \"_I'm_ not sure, but\nseeing for the first time a little of what Christ saw, Arnold, I think,\"\nhe said at last, with a catch in his voice.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nLooking back on them afterwards, Peter saw the months that followed as a\ntime of waiting between two periods of stress. Not, of course, that\nanyone can ever stand still, for even if one does but sit by a fire and\nwarm one's hands, things happen, and one is imperceptibly led forward. It\nwas so in this case, but, not unnaturally, Graham hardly noticed in what\nway his mind was moving. He had been through a period of storm, and he\nhad to a certain extent emerged from it. The men he had met, and above\nall Julie, had been responsible for the opening of his eyes to facts that\nhe had before passed over, and it was entirely to his credit that he\nwould not refuse to accept them and act upon them. But once he had\nresolved to do so things, as it were, slowed down. He went about his work\nin a new spirit, the spirit not of the teacher, but of the learner, and\never since his talk with Louise he thought--or tried to think--more of\nwhat love might mean to Julie than to himself. The result was a curious\nchange in their relations, of which the girl was more immediately and\ncontinually conscious than Peter. She puzzled over it, but could not get\nthe clue, and her quest irritated her. Peter had always been the least\nlittle bit nervous in her presence. She had known that he never knew what\nshe would do or say next, and her knowledge had amused and carried her\naway. But now he was so self-possessed. Very friendly they were, and they\nmet often--in the ward for a few sentences that meant much to each of\nthem; down town by arrangement in a cafe, or once or twice for dinner;\nand once for a day in the country, though not alone; and he was always\nthe same. Sometimes, on night duty, she would grope for an adjective to\nfit him, and could only think of \"tender.\" He was that. And she hated it,\nor all but hated it. She did not want tenderness from him, for it seemed\nto her that tenderness meant that he was, as it were, standing aloof from\nher, considering, helping when he could. She demanded the fierce rush of\npassion with which he would seize and shrine her in the centre of his\nheart, deaf to her entreaties, careless of her pain. She would love then,\nshe thought, and sometimes, going to the window of the ward and staring\nout over the harbour at the twinkling lights, she would bite her lip with\nthe pain of it. He had thought she dismissed love lightly when she called\nit animal passion. Good God, if he only knew!...\n\nPeter, for his part, did not realise so completely the change that had\ncome over him. For one thing, he saw himself all the time, and she did\nnot. She did not see him when he lay on his bed in a tense agony of\ndesire for her. She did not see him when life looked like a tumbled heap\nof ruins to him and she smiled beyond. She all but only saw him when he\nwas staring at the images that had been presented to him during the past\nmonths, or hearing in imagination Louise's quaintly accepted English and\nher quick and vivid \"La pauvre petite!\"\n\nFor it was Louise, curiously enough, who affected him most in these days.\nA friendship sprang up between them of which no one knew. Pennell and\nDonovan, with whom he went everywhere, did not speak of it either to him\nor to one another, with that real chivalry that is in most men, but if\nthey had they would have blundered, misunderstanding. Arnold, of whom\nPeter saw a good deal, did not know, or, if he knew, Peter never knew\nthat he knew. Julie, who was well aware of his friendship with the two\nfirst men, knew that he saw French girls, and, indeed, openly chaffed\nhim about it. But under her chaff was an anxiety, typical of her. She did\nnot know how far he went in their company, and she would have given\nanything to know. She guessed that, despite everything, he had had no\nphysical relationship with any one of them, and she almost wished it\nmight be otherwise. She knew well that if he fell to them, he would the\nmore readily turn to her. There was a strength about him now that she\ndreaded.\n\nWhatever Louise thought she kept wonderfully hidden. He took her out to\ndinner in quiet places, and she would take him home to coffee, and they\nwould chat, and there was an end. She was seemingly well content. She did\nher business, and they would even speak of it. \"I cannot come to-night,\nmon ami,\" she would say; \"I am busy.\" She would nod to him as she passed\nout of the restaurant with someone else, and he would smile back at her.\nNor did he ever remonstrate or urge her to change her ways. And she\nknew why. He had no key with which to open her cage.\n\nOnce, truly, he attempted it, and it was she who refused the glittering\nthing. He rarely came uninvited to her flat, for obvious reasons; but one\nnight she heard him on the stairs as she got ready for bed. He was\nwalking unsteadily, and she thought at first that he had been drinking.\nShe opened to him with the carelessness her life had taught her, her\ncostume off, and her black hair all about her shoulders. \"Go in and wait,\nPeterr,\" she said; \"I come.\"\n\nShe had slipped on a coloured silk wrap, and gone in to the sitting-room\nto find him pacing up and down. She smiled. \"Sit down, mon ami,\" she\nsaid; \"I will make the coffee. See, it is ready. Mais vraiment, you shall\ndrink café noir to-night. And one leetle glass of this--is it not so?\"\nand she took a green bottle of peppermint liqueur from the cupboard.\n\n\"Coffee, Louise,\" he said, \"but not the other. I don't want it.\"\n\nShe turned and looked more closely at him then. \"Non,\" she said, \"pardon.\nBut sit you down. Am I to have the wild beast prowling up and down in my\nplace?\"\n\n\"That's just it, Louise,\" he cried; \"I am a wild beast to-night. I can't\nstand it any longer. Kiss me.\"\n\nHe put his arms round her, and bent her head back, studying her French\nand rather inscrutable eyes, her dark lashes, her mobile mouth, her long\nwhite throat. He put his hand caressingly upon it, and slid his fingers\nbeneath the loose lace that the open wrap exposed. \"Dear,\" he said, \"I\nwant you to-night.\"\n\n\"To-night, chérie?\" she questioned.\n\n\"Yes, now,\" he said hotly. \"And why not? You give to other men--why not\nto me, Louise?\"\n\nShe freed herself with a quick gesture, and, brave heart, she laughed\nmerrily. The devil must have started at that laugh, and the angels of God\nsung for joy. \"Ah, non,\" she cried, \"It is the mistake you make. I _sell_\nmyself to other men. But you--you are my friend; I cannot sell myself to\nyou.\"\n\nHe did not understand altogether why she quibbled; how should he have\ndone? But lie was ashamed. He slid into the familiar chair and ran his\nfingers through his hair. \"Forgive me, dear,\" he muttered. \"I think I am\nmad to-night, but I am not drunk, as you thought, except with worrying.\nI feel lost, unclean, body and soul, and I thought you would help me to\nforget--no, more than that, help me to feel a man. Can't you, won't you?\"\nhe demanded, looking up. \"I am tired of play-acting. I've a body, like\nother men. Let me plunge down deep to-night, Louise. It will do me good,\nand it doesn't matter. That girl was right after all. Oh, what a fool I\nam!\"\n\nThen did the girl of the streets set out to play her chosen part. She did\nnot preach at all--how could she? Besides, neither had she any use for\nthe Ten Commandments. But if ever Magdalene broke an alabaster-box of\nvery precious ointment, Louise did so that night. She was worldly wise,\nand she did not disdain to use her wisdom. And when he had gone she got\ncalmly into bed, and slept--not all at once, it is true, but as\nresolutely as she had laughed and talked. It was only when she woke in\nthe morning that she found her pillow wet with tears.\n\nIt was a few days later that Louise took Peter to church. His ignorance\nof her religion greatly amused her, or so at least she pretended, and\nwhen he asked her to come out of town to lunch one morning, and she\nrefused because it was Corpus Christi, and she wanted to go to the sung\nMass, it was he who suggested that he should go with her. She looked at\nhim queerly a moment, and then agreed. They met outside the church and\nwent in together, as strange a pair as ever the meshes of that ancient\nnet which gathers of all kinds had ever drawn towards the shore.\n\nLouise led him to a central seat, and found the place for him in her\nPrayer-Book. The building was full, and Peter glanced about him\ncuriously. The detachment of the worshippers impressed him immensely.\nThere did not appear to be any proscribed procedure among them, and even\nwhen the Mass began he was one of the few who stood and knelt as the\nrubrics of the service directed. Louise made no attempt to do so. For the\nmost part she knelt, and her beads trickled ceaselessly through her\nfingers.\n\nPeter was, if anything, bored by the Mass, though he would not admit it\nto himself. It struck him as being a ratherly poorly played performance.\nTrue, the officiating ministers moved and spoke with a calm regularity\nwhich impressed him, familiar as he was with clergymen who gave out hymns\nand notices, and with his own solicitude at home that the singing should\ngo well or that the choirboys should not fidget. But there was a terrible\nconfusion with chairs, and a hideous kind of clapper that was used,\napparently, to warn the boys to sit and rise. The service, moreover, as a\nreverential congregational act of worship such as he was used to hope\nfor, was marred by innumerable collections, and especially by the old\nwoman who came round even during the _Sanctus_ to collect the rent of the\nchairs they occupied, and changed money or announced prices with all the\nzest of the market-place.\n\nBut at the close there was a procession which is worth considerable\ndescription. Six men with censers of silver lined up before the high\naltar, and stood there, slowly swinging the fragrant bowls at the end of\ntheir long chains. The music died down. One could hear the rhythmical,\nfaint clangour of the metal. And then, intensely sudden, away in the west\ngallery, but almost as if from the battlements of heaven, pealed out\nsilver trumpets in a fanfare. The censers flew high in time with it, and\nthe sweet clouds of smoke, caught by the coloured sunlight of the rich\npainted windows, unfolded in the air of the sanctuary. Lights moved and\ndanced, and the space before the altar filled with the white of the men\nand boys who should move in the procession. Again and again those\ntrumpets rang out, and hardly had the last echoes died away than the\norgan thundered the _Pange Lingua_, as a priest in cloth of gold turned\nfrom the altar with the glittering monstrance in his hand. Even from\nwhere he stood Peter could see the white centre of the Host for Whom\nall this was enacted. Then the canopy, borne by four French laymen in\nfrock-coats and white gloves, hid It from his sight; and the high gold\ncross, and its attendant tapers, swung round a great buttress into view.\n\nPeter had never heard a hymn sung so before. First the organ would peal\nalone; then the men's voices unaided would take up the refrain; then the\norgan again; then the clear treble of the boys; then, like waves breaking\non immemorial cliffs, organ, trumpets, boys, men, and congregation would\nthunder out together till the blood raced in his veins and his eyes were\ntoo dim to see.\n\nDown the central aisle at last they came, and Peter knelt with the rest.\nHe saw how the boys went before throwing flowers; how in pairs, as the\ncensers were recharged, the thurifers walked backward before the three\nbeneath the canopy, of whom one, white-haired and old, bore That in\nthe monstrance which all adored. In music and light and colour and scent\nthe Host went by, as It had gone for centuries in that ancient place, and\nPeter knew, all bewildered as he was, there, by the side of the girl,\nthat a new vista was opening before his eyes.\n\nIt was not that he understood as yet, or scarcely so. In a few minutes\nall had passed them, and he rose and turned to see the end. He watched\nwhile, amid the splendour of that court, with singers and ministers and\nthurifers arranged before, the priest ascended to enthrone the Sacrament\nin the place prepared for It. With banks of flowers behind, and the\nglitter of electric as well as of candle light, the jewelled rays of the\nmonstrance gleaming and the organ pealing note on note in a triumphant\necstasy, the old, bent priest placed That he carried there, and sank down\nbefore It. Then all sound of singing and of movement died away, and from\nthat kneeling crowd one lone, thin voice, but all unshaken, cried to\nHeaven of the need of men. It was a short prayer and he could not\nunderstand it, but it seemed to Peter to voice his every need, and to go\non and on till it reached the Throne. The \"Amen\" beat gently about him,\nand he sank his face in his hands.\n\nBut only for a second. The next he was lifted to his feet. All that had\ngone before was as nothing to this volume of praise that shook, it seemed\nto him, the very carven roof above and swept the ancient walls in waves\nof sound.\n\n_Adoremus in aeternum Sanctissimum Sacramentum_, cried men on earth, and,\nas it seemed to him, the very angels of God.\n\nBut outside he collected his thoughts. \"Well,\" he said. \"I'm glad I've\nbeen, but I shan't go again.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" demanded Louise. \"It was most beautiful. I have never 'eard it\nbetter.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, it was,\" said Peter; \"the music and singing were wonderful,\nbut--forgive me if I hurt you, but I can't help saying it--I see now what\nour people mean when they say it is nothing less than idolatry.\"\n\n\"Idolatry?\" queried Louise, stumblingly and bewildered. \"But what do you\nmean?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Peter, \"the Sacrament is, of course, a holy thing, a very\nholy thing, the sign and symbol of Christ Himself, but in that church\nsign and symbol were forgotten; the Sacrament was worshipped as if it\nwere very God.\"\n\n\"Oui, oui,\" protested Louise vehemently, \"It is. It is le bon Jesu. It is\nHe who is there. He passed by us among them all, as we read He went\nthrough the crowds of Jerusalem in the holy Gospel. And there was not one\nHe did not see, either,\" she added, with a little break in her voice.\n\nPeter all but stopped in the road. It was absurd that so simple a thing\nshould have seemed to him new, but it is so with us all. We know in a\nway, but we do not understand, and then there comes the moment of\nillumination--sometimes.\n\n\"Jesus Himself!\" he exclaimed, and broke off abruptly. He recalled a\nfragment of speech: \"Not a dead man, not a man on the right hand of the\nthrone of God.\" But \"He can't be found,\" Langton had said. Was it so? He\nwalked on in silence. What if Louise, with her pitiful story and her\ncaged, earthy life, had after all found what the other had missed? He\npulled himself together; it was too good to be true.\n\nOne day Louise asked him abruptly if he had been to see the girl in\nthe house which he had visited with Pennell. He told her no, and she\nsaid--they had met by chance in the town--\"Well, go you immediately,\nthen, or you will not see her.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" he asked. \"Is she ill--dying?\"\n\n\"Ah, non, not dying, but she is ill. They will take her to a 'ospital\nto-morrow. But this afternoon she will be in bed. She like to see you,\nI think.\"\n\nPeter left her and made for the house. On his way he thought of\nsomething, and took a turning which led to the market-place of flowers.\nThere, at a stall, he bought a big bunch of roses and some sprays of\nasparagus fern, and set off again. Arriving, he found the door shut. It\nwas a dilemma, for he did not even know the girl's name, but he knocked.\n\nA grim-faced woman opened the door and stared at him and his flowers. \"I\nthink there is a girl sick here,\" said Peter. \"May I see her?\"\n\nThe woman stared still harder, and he thought she was going to refuse him\nadmission, but at length she gave way. \"Entrez,\" she said. \"Je pense que\nvous savez le chambre. Mais, le bouquet--c'est incroyable.\"\n\nPeter went up the stairs and knocked at the door. A voice asked who was\nthere, and he smiled because he could not say. The girl did not know his\nname, either. \"A friend,\" he said: \"May I come in?\"\n\nA note of curiosity sounded in her voice. \"Oui, certainement. Entrez,\"\nshe called. Peter turned the handle and entered the remembered room.\n\nThe girl was sitting up in bed in her nightdress, her hair in disorder,\nand the room felt hot and stuffy and looked more tawdry than ever. She\nexclaimed at the sight of his flowers. He deposited the big bunch by the\nside of her, and seated himself on the edge of the bed. She had been\nreading a book, and he noticed it was the sort of book that Langton and\nhe had seen so prominently in the book-shop at Abbeville.\n\nIf he had expected to find her depressed or ashamed, he was entirely\nmistaken. \"Oh, you darling,\" she cried in clipped English. \"Kiss me,\nquick, or I will forget the orders of the doctor and jump out of bed and\ncatch you. Oh, that you should bring me the rose so beautiful! Hélas! I\nmay not wear one this night in the café! See, are they not beautiful\nhere?\"\n\nShe pulled her nightdress open considerably more than the average evening\ndress is cut away and put two or three of the blooms on her white bosom,\nputting her head on one side to see the result. \"Oui,\" she exclaimed, \"je\nsuis exquise! To-night I 'ave so many boys I do not know what to do! But\nI forget: I cannot go. Je suis malade, très malade. You knew? You are\nangry with me--is it not so?\"\n\nHe laughed; there was nothing else to do. \"No,\" he said; \"why should I\nbe? But I am very sorry.\"\n\nShe shrugged her shoulders. \"It is nothing,\" she said. \"C'est la guerre\nfor me. I shall not be long, and when I come out you will come to see me\nagain, will you not? And bring me more flowers? And you shall not let me\n'ave the danger any more, and if I do wrong you shall smack me 'ard.\nPer'aps you will like that. In the books men like it much. Would you like\nto whip me?\" she demanded, her eyes sparkling as she threw herself over\nin the bed and looked up at him.\n\nPeter got up and moved away to the window. \"No,\" he said shortly, staring\nout. He had a sensation of physical nausea, and it was as much as he\ncould do to restrain himself. He realised, suddenly, that he was in the\npresence of the world, the flesh, and the devil's final handiwork. Only\nhis new knowledge kept him quiet. Even she might be little to blame. He\nremembered all that she had said to him before, and suddenly his disgust\nwas turned into overwhelming pity. This child before him--for she was\nlittle more than a child--had bottomed degradation. For the temporary\nprotection and favour of a man that she guessed to be kind there was\nnothing in earth or in hell that she would not do. And in her already\nwere the seeds of the disease that was all but certain to slay her.\n\nHe turned again to the bed, and knelt beside it. \"Poor little girl,\" he\nsaid, and lightly brushed her hair. He certainly never expected the\nresult.\n\nShe pushed him from her. \"Oh, go, go!\" she cried. \"Quick go! You pretend,\nbut you do not love me. Why you give me money, the flowers, if you do not\nwant me? Go quick. Come never to see me again!\"\n\nPeter did the only thing he could do; he went. \"Good-bye,\" he said\ncheerfully at the door. \"I hope you will be better soon. I didn't mean to\nbe a beast to you. Give the flowers to Lucienne if you don't want them;\nshe will be able to wear them to-night. Cheerio. Good-bye-ee!\"\n\n\"Good-bye-ee!\" she echoed after him. And he closed the door on her life.\n\nIn front of the Hôtel de Ville he met Arnold, returning from the club,\nand the two men walked off together. In a moment of impulse he related\nthe whole story to him. \"Now,\" he said, \"what do you make of all that?\"\n\nArnold was very moved. It was not his way to say much, but he walked on\nsilently for a long time. Then he said: \"The Potter makes many vessels,\nbut never one needlessly. I hold on to that. And He can remake the broken\nclay.\"\n\n\"Are you sure?\" asked Peter.\n\n\"I am,\" said Arnold. \"It's not in the Westminster Confession, nor in the\nBook of Common Prayer, nor, for all I know, in the Penny Catechism, but I\nbelieve it. God Almighty must be stronger than the devil, Graham.\"\n\nPeter considered this. Then he shook his head. \"That won't wash, Arnold,\"\nhe said. \"If God is stronger than the devil, so that the devil is never\nultimately going to succeed, I can see no use in letting him have his\nfling at all. And I've more respect for the devil than to think he'd take\nit. It's childish to suppose the existence of two such forces at a\nperpetual game of cheat. Either there is no devil and there is no\nhell--in which case I reckon that there is no heaven either, for a heaven\nwould not be a heaven if it were not attained, and there would be no true\nattainment if there were no possibility of failure--or else there are all\nthree. And if there are all three, the devil wins out, sometimes, in the\nend.\"\n\n\"Then, God is not almighty?\"\n\nPeter shrugged his shoulders. \"If I breed white mice, I don't lessen my\npotential power if I choose to let some loose in the garden to see if the\ncat will get them. Besides, in the end I could annihilate the cat if I\nwanted to.\"\n\n\"You can't think of God so,\" cried Arnold sharply.\n\n\"Can't I?\" demanded Peter. \"Well, maybe not, Arnold; I don't know that I\ncan think of Him at all. But I can face the facts of life, and if I'm not\na coward, I shan't run away from them. That's what I've been doing these\ndays, and that's what I do not think even a man like yourself does\nfairly. You think, I take it, that a girl like that is damned utterly by\nall the canons of theology, and then, forced on by pity and tenderness,\nyou cry out against them all that she is God's making and He will not\nthrow her away. Is that it?\"\n\nArnold slightly evaded an answer. \"How can you save her, Graham?\" he\nasked.\n\n\"I can't. I don't pretend I can. I've nothing to say or do. I see only\none flicker of hope, and that lies in the fact that she doesn't\nunderstand what love is. No shadow of the truth has ever come her way.\nIf now, by any chance, she could see for one instant--in _fact_, mind\nyou--the face of God.... If God is Love,\" he added. They walked a dozen\npaces. \"And even then she might refuse,\" he said.\n\n\"Whose fault would that be?\" demanded the older man.\n\nPeter answered quickly, \"Whose fault? Why, all our faults--yours and\nmine, and the fault of men like Pennell and Donovan, as well as her own,\ntoo, as like as not. We've all helped build up the scheme of things as\nthey are, and we are all responsible. We curse the Germans for making\nthis damned war, and it is the war that has done most to make that girl;\nbut they didn't make it. No Kaiser made it, and no Nietzsche. The only\nperson who had no hand in it that I know of was Jesus Christ.\"\n\n\"And those who have left all and followed Him,\" said Arnold softly.\n\n\"Precious few,\" retorted Peter.\n\nThe other had nothing to say.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nDuring these months Peter wrote often to Hilda, and with increasing\nfrankness. Her replies grew shorter as his letters grew longer. It was\nstrange, perhaps, that he should continue to write, but the explanation\nwas not far to seek. It was by her that he gauged the extent of his\nseparation from the old outlook, and in her that he still clung,\ndesperately, as it were, to the past. Against reason he elevated her\ninto a kind of test position, and if her replies gave him no\nencouragement, they at least served to make him feel the inevitableness\nand the reality of his present position. It would have been easy to get\ninto the swim and let it carry him carelessly on--moderately easy, at any\nrate. But with Hilda to refer to he was forced to take notice, and it was\nshe, therefore, that hastened the end. Just after Christmas, in a fit of\ntemporary boldness, he told her about Louise, so that it was Louise again\nwho was the responsible person during these months. Hilda's reply was\ndelayed, nor had she written immediately. When he got it, it was brief\nbut to the point. She did not doubt, she said, but that what he had\nwritten was strictly true, and she did not doubt his honour. But he must\nsee that their relationship was impossible. She couldn't marry the man\nwho appeared actually to like the company of such a woman, nor could she\ndo other than feel that the end would seem to him as plain as it did to\nher, and that he would leave the Church, or at any rate such a ministry\nin it as she could share. She had told her people that she was no longer\nengaged in order that he should feel free, but she would ever remember\nthe man as she had known him, whom she had loved, and whom she loved\nstill.\n\nIt was in the afternoon that Peter got the letter, and he was just\nsetting off for the hospital. When he had read it, he put on his cap and\nset off in the opposite direction. There was a walk along the sea-wall a\nfew feet wide, where the wind blew strongly laden with the Channel\nbreezes, and on the other side was a waste of sand and stone. In some\nplaces water was on both sides of the wall, and here one could feel more\nalone than anywhere else in the town.\n\nPeter set off, his head in a mad whirl. He had felt that such a letter\nwould come for weeks, but that did not, in a way, lessen the blow when it\ncame. He had known, too, that Hilda was not to him what she had been, but\nhe had not altogether felt that she never could be so again. Now he knew\nthat he had gone too far to turn back. He felt, he could not help it,\nreleased in a sense, with almost a sense of exhilaration behind it, for\nthe unknown lay before. And yet, since we are all so human, he was\nintensely unhappy below all this. He called to mind little scenes and\nbits of scenes: their first meeting; the sight of her in church as he\npreached; how she had looked at the dining-table in Park Lane; her walk\nas she came to meet him in the park. And he knew well enough how he had\nhurt her, and the thought maddened him. He told himself that God was a\ndevil to treat him so; that he had tried to follow the right; and that\nthe way had led him down towards nothing but despair. He was no nearer\nanswering the problems that beset him. He might have been in a fool's\nparadise before, but what was the use of coming out to see the devil as\nhe was and men and women as they were if he could see no more than that?\nThe throne of his heart was empty, and there was none to fill it.\n\nJulie?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nThe sea-wall ended not far from Donovan's camp of mud and cinders, and\nhaving got there, Peter thought he would go on and get a cup of tea. He\ncrossed the railway-lines, steered through a great American rest camp,\ncrossed the canal, and entered the camp. It was a cheerless place in\nwinter, and the day was drawing in early with a damp fog. A great French\nairship was cruising around overhead and dropping down towards her\nresting-place in the great hangar near by. She looked cold and ghostly up\naloft, the more so when her engines were shut off, and Peter thought how\nchilly her crew must be. He had a hankering after Donovan's cheery\nhumour, especially as he had not seen him for some time. He crossed the\ncamp and made for the mess-room.\n\nIt was lit and the curtains were drawn, and, at the door, he stopped dead\nat the sound of laughter. Then he walked quickly in. \"Caught out, by\nJove!\" said Donovan's voice. \"You're for it, Julie.\"\n\nA merry party sat round the stove, taking tea. Julie and Miss Raynard\nwere both there, with Pennell and another man from Donovan's camp. Julie\nwore furs and had plainly just come in, for her cheeks were glowing with\nexercise. Pennell was sitting next Miss Raynard, but Donovan, on a\nwooden camp-seat, just beyond where Julie sat in a big cushioned chair,\nlooked out at him from almost under Julie's arm, as he bent forward. The\nother man was standing by the table, teapot in hand.\n\nOne thinks quickly at such a time, and Peter's mind raced. Something of\nthe old envy and almost fear of Donovan that he had had first that day in\nthe hospital came back to him. He had not seen the two together for so\nlong that it struck him like a blow to hear Donovan call her by her\nChristian name. It flashed across his mind also that she knew that it\nwas his day at the hospital, and that she had deliberately gone out; but\nit dawned on him equally quickly that he must hide all that.\n\n\"I should jolly well think so,\" he said, laughing. \"How do you do, Miss\nRaynard? Donovan, can you give me some tea? I've come along the sea-wall,\nand picked up a regular appetite. Are you in the habit of taking tea\nhere, Julie? I thought nurses were not allowed in camps.\"\n\nShe looked at him quickly, but he missed the meaning of her glance.\n\"Rather,\" she said; \"I come here for tea about once a week, don't I,\nJack? No, nurses are not allowed in camps, but I always do what's not\nallowed as far as possible. And this is so snug and out of the way. Mr.\nPennell, you can give me a cigarette now.\"\n\nThe other man offered Peter tea, which he took. \"And how did the\nfestivities go off at Christmas?\" he asked.\n\n\"Oh, topping,\" said Julie. \"Let me see, you were at the play, so I\nneedn't talk about that; but you thought it good, didn't you?\"\n\n\"Rippin'\" said Peter.\n\n\"Well,\" said Julie, \"then there was the dance on Boxing Night. We had\nglorious fun. Jack, here, behaved perfectly abominably. He sat out about\nhalf the dances, and I should think he kissed every pretty girl in the\nroom. Then we went down to the nurses' quarters of the officers' hospital\nand made cocoa of all things, and had a few more dances on our own. They\nmade me dance a skirt dance on the table, and as I had enough laces on\nthis time, I did. After that--but I don't think I'll tell you what we did\nafter that. Why didn't you come?\"\n\nPeter had been at a big Boxing Night entertainment for the troops in the\nY.M.C.A. Central Hall, but he did not say so. \"Oh,\" he said, \"I had to go\nto another stunt, but I must say I wish I'd been at yours. May I have\nanother cup of tea?\"\n\nThe third man gave it to him again, and then, apologizing, left the room.\nDonovan exchanged glances with Julie, and she nodded.\n\n\"I say, Graham,\" said Donovan, \"I'll tell you what we've really met here\nfor to-day. We were going to fix it up and then ask you; but as you've\ndropped in, we'll take it as a dispensation of Providence and let you\ninto the know. What do you say to a really sporting dinner at the New\nYear?\"\n\n\"Who's to be asked?\" queried Peter, looking round. \"Fives into a dinner\nwon't go.\"\n\n\"I should think not,\" cried Julie gaily. \"Jack, here, is taking me,\naren't you?\" Donovan said \"I am\" with great emphasis, and made as if he\nwould kiss her, and she pushed him off, laughing, holding her muff to his\nface. Then she went on: \"You're to take Tommy. It is Tommy's own\nparticular desire, and you ought to feel flattered. She says your auras\nblend, whatever that may be; and as to Mr. Pennell, he's got a girl\nelsewhere whom he will ask. Three and three make six; what do you think\nof that?\"\n\n\"Julie,\" said Tommy Raynard composedly, \"you're the most fearful liar\nI've ever met. But I trust Captain Graham knows you well enough by now.\"\n\n\"I do,\" said Peter, but a trifle grimly, though he tried not to show\nit--\"I do. I must say I'm jolly glad Donovan will be responsible for you.\nIt's going to be 'some' evening, I can see, and what you'll do if you get\nexcited I don't know. Flirt with the proprietor and have his wife down on\nus, as like as not. In which event it's Donovan who'll have to make the\nexplanations. But come on, what are the details?\"\n\n\"Tell him, Jack,\" said Julie. \"He's a perfect beast, and I shan't speak\nto him again.\"\n\nPeter laughed. \"Pas possible,\" he said. \"But come on, Donovan; do as\nyou're told.\"\n\n\"Well, old bird,\" said Donovan, \"first we meet here. Got that? It's safer\nthan any other camp, and we don't want to meet in town. We'll have tea\nand a chat and then clear off. We'll order dinner in a private room at\nthe Grand, and it'll be a dinner fit for the occasion. They've got some\npriceless sherry there, and some old white port. Cognac fine champagne\nfor the liqueur, and what date do you think?--1835 as I'm alive. I saw\nsome the other day, and spoke about it. That gave me the idea of the\ndinner really, and I put it to the old horse that that brandy was worthy\nof a dinner to introduce it. He tumbled at once. Veuve Cliquot as the\nmain wine. What about it?\"\n\nPeter balanced himself on the back of his chair and blew out\ncigarette-smoke.\n\n\"What time are you ordering the ambulances?\" he demanded.\n\n\"The beds, you mean,\" cried Julie, entirely forgetting her last words.\n\"That's what I say. _I_ shall never be able to walk to a taxi even.\"\n\n\"I'll carry you,\" said Donovan.\n\n\"You won't be able, not after such a night; besides, I don't believe you\ncould, anyhow. You're getting flabby from lack of exercise.\"\n\n\"Am I?\" cried Donovan. \"Let's see, anyway.\"\n\nHe darted at her, slipped an arm under her skirts and another under her\narms, and lifted her bodily from the chair.\n\n\"Jack,\" she shrieked, \"put me down! Oh, you beast! Tommy, help, help!\nPeter, make him put me down and I'll forgive you all you've said.\"\n\nTommy Raynard sprang up, laughing, and ran after Donovan, who could not\nescape her. She threw an arm round his neck and bent his head backwards.\n\"I shall drop her,\" he shouted. Peter leaped forward, and Julie landed in\nhis arms.\n\nFor a second she lay still, and Peter stared down at her. With her quick\nintuition she read something new in his eyes, and instantly looked away,\nscrambling out and standing there flushed and breathing hard, her hands\nat her hair. \"You perfect brute!\" she said to Donovan, laughing. \"I'll\npay you out, see if I don't. All my hair's coming down.\"\n\n\"Capital!\" said Donovan. \"I've never seen it down, and I'd love to. Here,\nlet me help.\"\n\nHe darted at her; she dodged behind Peter; he adroitly put out a foot,\nand Donovan collapsed into the big chair.\n\nJulie clapped her hands and rushed at him, seizing a cushion, and the two\nstruggled there till Tommy Raynard pulled Julie forcibly away.\n\n\"Julie,\" she said, \"this is a positive bear-garden. You must behave.\"\n\n\"And I,\" said Pennell, who had not moved, \"would like to know a little\nmore about the dinner.\" He spoke so dryly that they all laughed, and\norder was restored. Donovan, however, refused to get out of the big\nchair, and Julie deliberately sat on his knee, smiling provocatively at\nhim.\n\nPeter felt savage and bitter. Like a man, he was easily deceived, and he\nhad been taken by surprise at a bad moment. But he did his best to hide\nit, and merely threw any remnants of caution he had left at all to the\nwinds.\n\n\"I suppose this is the best we can hope for, Captain Graham,\" said Miss\nRaynard placidly. \"Perhaps now you'll give us your views. Captain Donovan\nnever gets beyond the drinks, but I agree with Mr. Pennell we want\nsomething substantial.\"\n\n\"I'm blest if I don't think you all confoundedly ungrateful,\" said\nDonovan. \"I worked that fine champagne for you beautifully. Anyone would\nthink you could walk in and order it any day. If we get it at all, it'll\nbe due to me and my blarney. Not but what it does deserve a good\nintroduction,\" he added. \"I don't suppose there's another bottle in the\ntown.\"\n\nTommy sighed. \"He's off again, or he will be,\" she said. \"Do be quick,\nCaptain Graham.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Peter. \"I suggest, first, that you leave the ordering of the\nroom to me, and the decorations. I've most time, and I'd like to choose\nthe flowers. And the smokes and crackers. And I'll worry round and get\nsome menu-cards, and have 'em printed in style. And, if you like, I'll\ninterview the chef and see what he can give us. It's not much use our\ndiscussing details without him.\"\n\n\"'A Daniel come to judgment,'\" said Pennell. \"Padre, I didn't know you\nhad it in you.\"\n\n\"A Solomon,\" said Julie mischievously.\n\n\"A Peter Graham,\" said Miss Raynard. \"I always knew he had more sense in\nhis little finger than all the rest of you in your heads.\"\n\nDonovan sighed from the depths of the chair. \"Graham,\" he said, \"for\nHeaven's sake remember those...\"\n\nJulie clapped her hand over his mouth. He kissed it. She withdrew it with\na scream.\n\n\"...Drinks,\" finished Donovan. \"The chef must suggest accordin'.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Pennell, \"I reckon that's settled satisfactorily. I'll get\nout my invitation. In fact, I think, if I may be excused, I'll go and do\nit now.\" He got up and reached for his cap.\n\nThey all laughed. \"We'll see to it that there's mistletoe,\" cried Julie.\n\n\"Ah, thanks!\" said Pennell; \"that will be jolly, though some people I\nknow seem to get on well enough without it. So long. See you later,\npadre.\"\n\nHe avoided Julie's flung cushion and stepped through the door. Miss\nRaynard got up. \"We ought to get a move on too, my dear,\" she said to\nJulie.\n\n\"Oh, not yet,\" protested Donovan. \"Let's have some bridge. There are just\nfour of us.\"\n\n\"You can never have played bridge with Julie, Captain Donovan,\" said Miss\nRaynard. \"She usually flings the cards at you half way through the\nrubber. And she never counts. The other night she played a diamond\ninstead of a heart, when hearts were trumps, and she had the last and\nall the rest of the tricks in her hand.\"\n\n\"Ah, well,\" said Donovan, \"women are like that. They often mistake\ndiamonds for hearts.\"\n\n\"Jack,\" said Julie, \"you're really clever. How do you do it? I had no\nidea. Does it hurt? But don't do it again; you might break something.\nPeter, you've been praised this evening, but you'd never think of that.\"\n\n\"He would not,\" said Miss Raynard.... \"Come on, Julie.\"\n\nPeter hesitated a second. Then he said: \"You're going my way. May I see\nyou home?\"\n\n\"Thanks,\" said Miss Raynard, and they all made a move.\n\n\"It's deuced dark,\" said Donovan. \"Here, let me. I'll go first with a\ncandle so that you shan't miss the duck-boards.\"\n\nHe passed out, Tommy Raynard after him. Peter stood back to let Julie\npass, and as she did so she said: \"You're very glum and very polite\nto-night, Solomon. What's the matter?\"\n\n\"Am I?\" said Peter; \"I didn't know it. And in any case Donovan is all\nright, isn't he?\"\n\nHe could have bitten his tongue out the next minute. She looked at him\nand then began to laugh silently, and, still laughing, went out before\nhim. Peter followed miserably. At the gate Donovan said good-bye, and the\nthree set out for the hospital. Miss Raynard walked between Peter and\nJulie, and did most of the talking, but the ground was rough and the path\nnarrow, and it was not until they got on to the dock road that much could\nbe said.\n\n\"This is the best Christmas I've ever had,\" declared Miss Raynard. \"I'm\nfeeling positively done up. There was something on every afternoon and\nevening last week, and then Julie sits on my bed till daybreak, more or\nless, and smokes cigarettes. We've a bottle of benedictine, too, and it\nalways goes to her head. The other night she did a Salome dance on the\nstrength of it.\"\n\n\"It was really fine,\" said Julie. \"You ought to have seen me.\"\n\n\"Till the towel slipped off: not then, I hope,\" said Tommy dryly.\n\n\"I don't suppose he'd have minded--would you, Peter?\"\n\n\"Not a bit,\" said Peter cheerfully--\"on the contrary.\"\n\n\"I don't know if you two are aware that you are positively indecent,\"\nsaid Tommy. \"Let's change the subject. What's your news, Captain Graham?\"\n\nPeter smiled in the dark to himself. \"Well,\" he said, \"not much, but I'm\nhoping for leave soon. I've pushed in for it, and our Adjutant told me\nthis morning he thought it would go through.\"\n\n\"Lucky man! I've got to wait three months. But yours ought to be about\nnow, Julie.\"\n\n\"I think it ought,\" said Julie shortly. Then: \"What about the menu-cards,\nPeter? Would you like me to help you choose them?\"\n\n\"Would you?\" said he eagerly. \"To-morrow?\"\n\n\"I'm on duty at five o'clock, but I can get off for an hour in the\nafternoon. Could you come, Tommy?\"\n\n\"No. Sorry; but I must write letters. I haven't written one for ages.\"\n\n\"Nor have I,\" said Julie, \"but I don't mean to. I hate letters. Well,\nwhat about it, Peter?\"\n\n\"I should think we had better try that stationer's in the Rue Thiers,\" he\nsaid. \"If that won't do, the Nouvelles Galeries might. What do you\nthink?\"\n\n\"Let's try the Galeries first. We could meet there. Say at three, eh? I\nwant to get some baby-ribbon, too.\"\n\nTommy sighed audibly. \"She's off again,\" she said.\n\n\"Thank God, here's the hospital! Good-night, Captain Graham. You mustn't\ncross the Rubicon to-night.\"\n\n\"You oughtn't to swear before him,\" said Julie in mock severity. \"And\nwhat in the world is the Rubicon?\"\n\n\"Materially, to-night, it's the railway-line between his camp and the\nhospital,\" said Tommy Raynard. \"What else it is I'll leave him to\ndecide.\"\n\nShe held out her hand, and Peter saw a quizzical look on her face. He\nturned rather hopelessly to Julie. \"I say,\" he said, \"didn't you _know_\nit was my afternoon at the hospital?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Julie, \"and I knew you didn't come. At least, I couldn't see\nyou in any of the wards.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" he exclaimed, \"I thought you'd been out all the afternoon. I'm\nsorry. I am a damned fool, Julie!\"\n\nShe laughed in the darkness. \"I've known worse, Peter,\" she said, and was\ngone.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNext day Julie was in her most provocative of moods. Peter, eminently\nrespectable in his best tunic, waited ten minutes for her outside the\nNouvelles Galeries, and, like most men in his condition, considered that\nshe was never coming, and that he was the cynosure of neighbouring eyes.\nWhen she did come, she was not apparently aware that she was late. She\nran her eyes over him, and gave a pretended gasp of surprise. \"You're\nlooking wonderful, Padre Graham,\" she said. \"Really, you're hard to live\nup to. I never know what to expect or how to behave. Those black buttons\nterrorise me. Come on.\"\n\nShe insisted on getting her ribbon first, and turned over everything\nthere was to be seen at that counter. The French girl who served them was\nhighly amused.\n\n\"Isn't that chic?\" Julie demanded of Peter, holding up a lacy camisole\nand deliberately putting it to her shoulders. \"Wouldn't you love to see\nme in it?\"\n\n\"I would,\" he said, without the ghost of a smile.\n\n\"Well, you never will, of course,\" she said. \"I shall never marry or be\ngiven in marriage, and in any case, in that uniform, you've nothing\nwhatever to hope for.... Yes, I'll take that ribbon, thank you,\nma'm'selle. Peter, I suppose you can't carry it for me. Your pocket? Not\na bad idea; but let me put it in.\"\n\nPeter stood while she undid his breast-pocket and stuffed it inside.\n\n\"Anything more?\" demanded the French saleswoman interrogatively.\n\n\"Not to-day, merci,\" said Julie. \"You see, Peter, you couldn't carry\nundies for me, even in your pocket; it wouldn't be respectable. _Do_ come\non. You will keep us here the entire day.\"\n\nThey passed the smoking department, and she stopped suddenly. \"Peter,\"\nshe said, \"I'm going to give you a pipe. Those chocolates you gave me at\nChristmas were too delicious for anything. What sort do you like? A\nbriar? Let me see if it blows nicely.\" She put it to her lips. \"I swear\nI shall start a pipe soon, in my old age. By the way, I don't believe you\nhave any idea how old I am--have you, Peter? Guess.\"\n\nShe was quick to note the return to his old manner. He was nervous with\nher, not sure of himself, and so not sure of her either. And she traded\non it. At the stationery department she made eyes at a couple of\nofficers, and insisted on examining Kirschner picture-postcards, some of\nwhich she would not show him. \"You can't possibly be seen looking at them\nwith those badges up,\" she whispered. \"Dear me, if only Donovan were\nhere! He wouldn't mind, and I don't know which packet I like best. These\nhave got very little on, Peter--_very_ little, but I'm not sure that they\nare not more decent than those. It's _much_ worse than a camisole,\nyou know....\"\n\nPeter was horribly conscious that the men were smiling at her. \"Julie,\"\nhe said desperately, \"_do_ be sensible, just for a minute. We must get\nthose menu-cards.\"\n\n\"Well, you go and find the books,\" she said merrily. \"I told you you\nought not to watch me buy these. I'll take the best care of myself,\" and\nshe looked past him towards the men.\n\nPeter gave it up. \"Julie,\" he said savagely, \"if you make eyes any more,\nI'll kiss you here and now--I swear I will.\"\n\nJulie laughed her little nearly silent chuckle, and looked at him. \"I\nbelieve you would, Peter,\" she said, \"and I certainly mustn't risk that.\nI'll be good. Are those the books? Fetch me a chair, then, and I'll look\nthrough them.\"\n\nHe bent over her as she turned the leaves. She wore a little toque that\nhad some relation to a nurse's uniform, but was distinctive of Julie. Her\nfringe of brown hair lay along her forehead, and the thick masses of the\nrest of it tempted him almost beyond endurance. \"How will that do?\" she\ndemanded, her eyes dancing. \"Oh, do look at the cards and not at me!\nYou're a terrible person to bring shopping, Peter!\"\n\nThe card selected, she had a bright idea. \"What about candle-shades?\" she\nqueried. \"We can't trust the hotel. I want some with violets on them: I\nlove violets.\"\n\n\"Do you?\" he said eagerly. \"That's just what I wanted to know. Yes, it's\na fine idea; let's go and get them.\"\n\nOutside, she gave a sigh of relief, and looked at the little gold\nwrist-watch on her arm. \"We've time,\" she said. \"Take me to tea.\"\n\n\"You must know it's not possible,\" he said. \"They're enforcing the order,\nand one can't get tea anywhere.\"\n\nShe shook her head at him. \"I think, Peter,\" she said, \"you'll never\nlearn the ropes. Follow me.\"\n\nNot literally, but metaphorically, he followed her. She led him to a big\nconfectioner's with two doors and several windows, in each of which was a\nbig notice of the new law forbidding teas or the purchase of chocolates.\nInside, she walked up to a girl who was standing by a counter, and who\ngreeted her with a smile. \"It is cold outside,\" she said. \"May I have a\nwarm by the fire?\"\n\n\"Certainly, mademoiselle,\" said the girl. \"And monsieur also. Will it\nplease you to come round here?\"\n\nThey went behind the counter and in at a little door. There was a fire in\nthe grate of the small kitchen, and a kettle singing on the hob. Julie\nsat down on a chair at the wooden table and looked round with\nsatisfaction.\n\n\"Why, it's all ready for us!\" she exclaimed. \"Chocolate cakes, Suzanne,\nplease, _and_ hot buttered scones. I'll butter them, if you bring the\nscones.\"\n\nThey came, and she went to the fire, splitting them open and spreading\nthe butter lavishly. \"I love France,\" she said. \"All laws are made to be\nbroken, which is all that laws are good for, don't you think?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said deliberately, glancing at the closed door, and bent and\nkissed her neck. She looked up imperiously. \"Again,\" she said; and he\nkissed her on the lips. At that she jumped up with a quick return to the\nold manner: \"Peter! For a parson you are the outside edge. Go and sit\ndown over there and recollect yourself. To begin with, if we're found,\nhere, there'll be a row, and if you're caught kissing me, who knows what\nwill happen?\"\n\nHe obeyed gaily. \"Chaff away, Julie,\" he said, \"but I shan't wear black\nbuttons at the dinner. You'll have to look out that night.\"\n\nShe put the scones on the table, and sat down. \"And if I don't?\" she\nqueried. Peter said nothing. He had suddenly thought of something. He\nlooked at her, and for the first time she would not meet his eyes.\n\nIt was thought better on New Year's Eve that they should go separately to\nDonovan's camp, so Peter and Pennell set out for it alone. By the canal\nPennell left his friend to go and meet Elsie Harding, the third girl.\nPeter went on alone, and found Donovan, giving some orders in the camp.\nHe stood with him till they saw the other four, who had met on the\ntow-path, coming in together.\n\n\"He's a dark horse,\" called Julie, almost before they had come up, \"and\nso's she. Fancy Elsie being the third! I didn't know they knew each\nother. We're a Colonial party to-night, Jack--all except Peter, that is,\nfor Mr. Pennell is more Canadian than English. We'll teach them. By the\nway, I can't go on saying 'Mr. Pennell' all night. What shall I call him,\nElsie?\"\n\nPeter saw that the new-comer wore an Australian brooch, and caught the\nunmistakable but charming accent in her reply. \"He's 'Trevor' to me, and\nhe can be to you, if you like, Julie,\" she said.\n\nTommy sighed audibly. \"They're beginning early,\" she said; \"but I suppose\nthe rest of us had better follow the general example--eh, Peter?\"\n\nIn the anteroom, where tea was ready, Peter saw that Elsie was likely to\nplay Julie a good second. She was tall, taller than Pennell himself, and\ndark skinned, with black hair and full red lips, and rather bigly built.\nIt appeared that her great gift was a set of double joints that allowed\nher to play the contortionist with great effect. \"You should just see her\nin tights,\" said Julie. \"Trevor, why didn't you say whom you were\nbringing, and I'd have made her put them on. Then we could have had an\nexhibition, but, as it is, I suppose we can't.\"\n\n\"I didn't know you knew her,\" he said.\n\n\"You never have time to talk of other people when you're together, I\nsuppose,\" she retorted. \"Well, I've no doubt you make the most of your\nopportunities, and you're very wise. But to-night you've got to behave,\nmore or less--at least, till after the coffee. Otherwise all our\npreparations will be wasted--won't they, Peter?\"\n\nAfter tea they set off together for the tram-car that ran into town. It\nwas Julie who had decided this. She said she liked to see the people, and\nthe cars were so perfectly absurd, which was true. Also, that it would be\ntoo early to enjoy taxis, the which was very like her. So they walked in\na body to the terminus, where a crowd of Tommies and French workmen and\nfactory girls were waiting. The night was cloudy and a little damp, but\nit had the effect of adding mystery to the otherwise ugly street, and to\nthe great ships under repair in the dockyards close by. The lights of the\ntram appeared at length round the corner, an engine-car and two trailers.\nThere was a bolt for them. They were packed on the steps, and the men had\nto use elbows freely to get the whole party in, but the soldiers and the\nworkmen were in excellent humour, and the French girls openly admiring of\nJulie. In the result, then, they were all hunched up in the end of a\n\"first\" compartment, and Peter found himself with his back to the glass\ndoor, Julie on his right, Elsie on his left.\n\n\"Every rib I have is broken,\" said the former.\n\n\"The natural or the artificial?\" demanded Elsie. \"Personally, I think I\nbroke a few of other people's.\"\n\nThey started, and the rattling of the ramshackle cars stopped\nconversation. Julie drew Peter's attention to a little scene on the\nplatform outside, and he looked through the glass to see a big French\nlinesman with his girl. The man had got her into a corner, and then,\ncoolly putting his arms out on either side to the hand-rail and to the\nknob of their door, he was facing his amorata, indifferent to the\nworld. Peter looked at the girl's coarse face. She was a factory hand,\nbareheaded, and her sleeves were rolled up at her elbows. For all that,\nshe was neat, as a Frenchwoman invariably is. The girl caught his gaze,\nand smiled. The linesman followed the direction of her eyes and glanced\nfriendly at Peter too. Then he saw Julie. A look of admiration came over\nhis face, and he put one hand comically to his heart. The girl slapped it\nin a pretended fury, and Julie doubled up with laughter in her corner.\nPeter bent over her. \"_'Everybody's doing it, doing it, doing it,'_\" he\nquoted merrily.\n\nThe tram stopped, in the square before the Hôtel de Ville. There was a\ngreat air of festivity and bustle about as they stepped out, for the New\nYear is a great time in France. Lights twinkled in the misty dark; taxis\nsprinted across the open spaces; and people greeted each other gaily by\nthe brightly-lit shops. Somehow or another the whole thing went to\nPeter's head like wine. The world was good and merry, he thought\nexultantly, and he, after all, a citizen of it. He caught Julie's arm,\n\"Come on,\" he called to the others. \"I know the way,\" And to her: \"Isn't\nit topping? Do you feel gloriously exhilarated? I don't know why, Julie,\nbut I could do anything to-night.\"\n\nShe slipped her fingers down into his hand. \"I'm so glad,\" she said. \"So\ncould I.\"\n\nThey whirled across the road, the others after them, round the little\npark in the centre of the square, and down an empty side-street. Peter\nhad reconnoitred all approaches, he said, and this was the best way.\nBegging him to give her time to breathe, Tommy came along with Donovan,\nand it suddenly struck Peter that the latter seemed happy enough. He\npressed Julie's hand: \"Donovan's dropped into step with Tommy very\neasily,\" he said. \"Do you mind?\"\n\nShe laughed happily and glanced back. \"You're as blind as a bat, Peter,\nwhen all's said and done,\" she said; \"but oh, my dear, I can't play with\nyou to-night. There's only one person I want to walk with Peter.\"\n\nPeter all but shouted. He drew her to him, and for once Julie was\nhonestly alarmed.\n\n\"Not now, you mad boy!\" she exclaimed, but her eyes were enough for him.\n\n\"All right,\" he laughed at her; \"wait a bit. There's time yet.\"\n\nIn the little entrance-hail the _maître d'hôtel_ greeted them. They were\nthe party of importance that night. He ushered them upstairs and opened a\ndoor. The mademoiselles might make the toilette there. Another door: they\nwould eat here.\n\nThe men deposited their caps and sticks and coats on pegs outside, and\nthe girls, who had had to come in uniform also, were ready as soon as\nthey. They went in together. Elsie gave a little whistle of surprise.\n\nPeter had certainly done well. Holly and mistletoe were round the walls,\nand a big bunch of the latter was placed in such a way that it would hang\nover the party as they sat afterwards by the fire. In the centre a silver\nbowl held glorious roses, white and red, and at each girl's place was\na bunch of Parma violets and a few sprigs of flowering mimosa. Bon-bons\nwere spread over the white cloth. Julie's candle-shades looked perfect,\nand so did the menu-cards.\n\n\"I trust that monsieur is satisfied,\" said the _maître d'hôtel_, bowing\ntowards the man who had had the dealings with him. He got his answer, but\nnot from Peter, and, being a Frenchman, smiled, bowed again, and\ndiscreetly left the room; for Elsie, turning to Peter cried: \"Did you do\nit--even the wattle?\" and kissed him heartily. He kissed her back, and\ncaught hold of Julie. \"Tit for tat,\" he said to her under his breath,\nholding her arms; \"do you remember our first taxi?\" Then, louder: \"Julie\nis responsible for most of it,\" and he kissed her too.\n\nThey sorted themselves out at last, and the dinner, that two of them at\nleast who were there that night were never to forget, began. They were\nuproariously merry, and the two girls who waited came and went wreathed\nin smiles.\n\nWith the champagne came a discussion over the cork. \"Give it to me\" cried\nJulie; \"I want to wear it for luck.\"\n\n\"So do I,\" said Elsie; \"we must toss for it.\"\n\nJulie agreed, and they spun a coin solemnly.\n\n\"It's mine,\" cried Elsie, and pounced for it.\n\nJulie snatched it away, \"No, you don't,\" she said. \"A man must put it in,\nor there's no luck in it. Here you are, Trevor.\"\n\nPennell took it, laughing, and pushed back his chair. The others stood up\nand craned over to see. Elsie drew up her skirt and Trevor pushed it\ndown her stocking amid screams of laughter, and the rattle of chaff.\n\n\"No higher or I faint,\" said Tommy.\n\nTrevor stood up, a little flushed. \"Here,\" said Peter, filling his glass\nwith what was left in the bottle, \"drink this, Pen. You sure want it.\"\n\n\"It's your turn next,\" said Trevor, \"and, by Jove, the bottle's empty!\nEncore le vin,\" he called.\n\n\"Good idea. It's Julie's next cork, and Graham's the man to do it.\" said\nJack Donovan. \"And then it'll be your turn, Tommy.\"\n\n\"And yours,\" she said, glancing at him.\n\n\"Bet you won't dare,\" said Elsie.\n\n\"Who won't?\" retorted Julie.\n\n\"Peter, of course.\"\n\n\"My dear, you don't know Peter. Here you are, Peter; let's show them.\"\n\nShe tossed the cork to him and stood up coolly, put up her foot on the\nedge of the table, and lifted her skirt. Peter pushed the cork into its\ntraditional place amid cheers, but he hardly heard. His fingers had\ntouched her skin, and he had seen the look in her eyes. No wine could\nhave intoxicated him so. He raised his glass. \"Toasts!\" he shouted.\n\nThey took him up and everyone rose to their feet.\n\n\"'Here's to all those that I love;\nHere's to all those that love me;\nHere's to all those that love them that love those\nThat love those that love them that love me!'\"\n\nhe chanted.\n\n\"Julie's turn,\" cried Elsie.\n\n\"No,\" she said; \"they know all my toasts.\"\n\n\"Not all,\" said Donovan; \"there was one you never finished--something\nabout Blighty.\"\n\n\"Rhymes with nighty,\" put in Tommy coolly; \"don't you remember, Julie?\"\n\nIt seemed to Peter that he and Julie stood there looking at each other\nfor seconds, but probably no one but Tommy noticed. \"Take it as read,\"\ncried Peter boisterously, and emptied his glass. His example was\ninfectious, and they all followed suit, but Donovan remarked across the\ntable to him:\n\n\"You spoiled a humorous situation, old dear.\"\n\nDinner over, they pushed the table against the wall, and pulled chairs\nround the fire. Dessert, crackers, chocolates and cigarettes were piled\non a small table, and the famous liqueur came in with the coffee. They\nfilled the little glasses. \"This is a great occasion,\" said Donovan;\n\"let's celebrate it properly. Julie, give us a dance first.\"\n\nShe sprang up at once. \"Right-o,\" she said. \"Clear the table.\"\n\nThey pushed everything to one side, and Peter held out his hand. Just\ntouching his fingers, she leaped up, and next minute circled there in a\nwhirl of skirts. A piano stood in a corner of the room, and Elsie ran to\nit. Looking over her shoulder, she caught the pace, and the notes rang\nout merrily.\n\nJulie was the very spirit of devilment and fun. So light that she seemed\nhardly to touch the table, she danced as if born to it. It was such an\nincarnation of grace and music that a little silence fell on them all. To\nPeter she appeared to dance to him. He could not take his eyes off her;\nhe cared nothing what others thought or saw. There was a mist before him\nand thunder in his ears. He saw only her flushed, childlike face and\nsparkling brown eyes, and a wave of her loosened hair that slipped across\nthem....\n\nThe music ceased. Panting for breath, she leaped down amid a chorus of\n\"Bravo's!\" and held out her hand for the liqueur-glass. Peter put it in\nher fingers, and he was trembling more than she, and spilt a little of\nit. \"Well, here's the best,\" she cried, and raised the glass. Then, with\na gay laugh, she put her moistened fingers to his mouth and he kissed\nthem, the spirit on his lips.\n\nAnd now Elsie must show herself off. They sat down to watch her, and a\nmore insidious feeling crept over Peter as he did so. The girl bent her\nbody this way and that; arched herself over and looked at them between\nher feet; twisted herself awry and made faces at them. They laughed, but\nthere was a new note in the laughter. An intense look had come into\nPennell's face, and Donovan was lolling back, his head on one side,\nsmiling evilly.\n\nShe finished and straightened herself, and they had more of the liqueur.\nThen Tommy, as usual, remembered herself. \"Girls,\" she said, \"we must go.\nIt's fearfully late.\"\n\nDonovan sat up. \"What about taxis?\" he demanded.\n\nPeter went to the door. \"They'll fetch them,\" he said. \"I've made an\narrangement.\"\n\nHe went a little unsteadily to find the _maître d'hôtel_, and a boy was\ndespatched, while he settled the bill. They were tramping down the stairs\nas he came out of the little office. Julie leading and laughing\nuproariously at some joke. Donovan and Tommy were the steadiest, and they\ncame down together. It seemed to Peter that it was natural for them to do\nso.\n\nPennell and Elsie got into one taxi. She leaned out of the window and\nwaved her hand. \"We're the luckiest,\" she called; \"we've the farthest to\ngo. Good-night everyone, and thanks ever so much.\"\n\nA second taxi came up. \"Jump in, Julie,\" said Tommy.\n\nShe got in, and Peter put his hand on the door. \"I've settled everything,\nDonovan,\" he said. \"See you to-morrow. Good-night, Tommy.\"\n\n\"Good-night,\" she called back, and he got in. And next minute he was\nalone with Julie.\n\nIn the closed and darkened taxi he put his arm round her and drew her to\nhim. \"Oh, my darling,\" he murmured. \"Julie, do you love me as I love you?\nI can't live without you.\" He covered her face with hot kisses, and she\nkissed him back.\n\n\"Julie,\" he said at length, breathlessly, \"listen. My leave's come. I\nknew this morning. Couldn't you possibly be in England when I am? I saw\nyou first on the boat coming over--remember? And you're due again.\"\n\n\"When do you go?\" she queried.\n\n\"Fourteenth,\" he answered.\n\nShe considered. \"I couldn't get off by then,\" she said, \"but I might the\ntwenty-first or thereabouts. I'm due, as you say, and I think it could be\nmanaged.\"\n\n\"Would you?\" he demanded, and hung on her words.\n\nShe turned her face up to him, and even in the dark he could see her\nglowing eyes. \"It would be heaven, Peter,\" she whispered.\n\nHe kissed her passionately.\n\n\"I could meet you in town easily,\" he said.\n\n\"Not the leave-boat train,\" she replied; \"it's not safe. Anyone might be\nthere. But I'll run down for a day or two to some friends in Sussex, and\nthen come up to visit more in town. I know very few people, of course,\nand all my relations are in South Africa. No one would know to whom I\nwent, and if I didn't go to them, Peter, why nobody would know either.\"\n\n\"Splendid!\" he answered, the blood pounding in his temples. \"I'll make\nall the arrangements. Shall I take a flat, or shall we go to an hotel? An\nhotel's more fun, perhaps, and we can have a suite.\"\n\nShe leaned over against him and caught his hand to her breast, with a\nlittle intake of breath.\n\n\"I'll leave it all to you, my darling,\" she whispered.\n\nThe taxi swung into the clearing before the hospital. \"Peter,\" said\nJulie, \"Tommy's so sharp; I believe she'll suspect something.\"\n\n\"I don't care a damn for anyone!\" said Peter fiercely; \"let her. I only\nwant you.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nPeter secured his leave for Monday the 21st from Boulogne, which\nnecessitated his leaving Le Havre at least twenty-four hours before that\nday. There were two ways of travelling--across country in a troop-train,\nor by French expresses via Paris. He had heard so much of the latter plan\nthat he determined to try it. It had appeared to belong to the reputation\nof the Church.\n\nHis movement order was simply from the one port to the other, and was\nprobably good enough either way round with French officials; but there\nwas a paper attached to it indicating that the personnel in question\nwould report at such a time to the R.T.O. at such a station, and the time\nand the station spelt troop-train unmistakably. Now, the troop-train\nset out on its devious journey an hour later than the Paris express from\nthe same station, and the hour of the Paris express corresponded with the\ntime that all decent officers go to dinner. Peter therefore removed the\nfirst paper, folded it up thoughtfully, and put it in his pocket. He then\nreported to the R.T.O. a quarter of an hour before the Paris train\nstarted, and found, as he expected, a N.C.O. in sole charge. The man took\nhis paper and read it. He turned it over; there was no indication of\nroute anywhere. \"Which train are you going by, sir?\" he asked.\n\n\"Paris mail,\" said Peter coolly. \"Will you please put my stuff in a\nfirst?\"\n\n\"Certainly, sir,\" said the man, endorsed the order to that effect, and\nshouldered a suit-case. Peter followed him. He was given a first to\nhimself, and the Deputy R.T.O. saw the French inspector and showed him\nthe paper. Peter strolled off and collected a bottle of wine, some\nsandwiches, and some newspapers; then he made himself comfortable.\nThe train left punctually. Peter lay back in his corner and watched the\ncountry slip by contentedly. He had grown up, had this young man.\n\nHe arrived in Paris with the dawn of Sunday morning, and looked out\ncautiously. There was no English official visible. However, his papers\nwere entirely correct, and he climbed up the stairs and wandered along a\ncorridor in which hands and letters from time to time indicated the lair\nof the R.T.O. Arriving, he found another officer waiting, but no R.T.O.\nThe other was \"bored stiff,\" he said; he had sat there an hour, but had\nseen no sign of the Transport Officer. Peter smiled, and replied that he\nhad no intention whatever of waiting; he only wanted to know the times of\nthe Boulogne trains. These he discovered by the aid of a railway guide on\nthe table, and selected the midnight train, which would land him in\nBoulogne in time for the first leave-boat, if the train were punctual and\nthe leave-boat not too early. In any case, he could take the second,\nwhich would only mean Victoria a few hours later that same day. And these\ndetails settled, he left his luggage in a corner and strolled off into\nthe city.\n\nA big city, seen for the first time by oneself alone when one does not\nknow a soul in it, may be intensely boring or intensely interesting. It\ndepends on oneself. Peter was in the mood to be interested. He was\nintrospective. It pleased him to watch the early morning stir; to see the\nwomen come out in shawls and slipshod slippers and swill down their bit\nof pavement; to see sleepy shopkeepers take down their shutters and\nstreet-vendors set up their stalls; to try to gauge the thoughts and\ndoings of the place from the shop-windows and the advertisements. His\nfirst need was a wash and a shave, and he got both at a little barber's\nin which monsieur attended to him, while madame, in considerable\n_négligée_, made her toilette before the next glass. His second was\nbreakfast, and he got it, _à l'anglaise_, with an omelette and jam, in a\njust-stirring hotel; and then, set up, he strolled off for the centre of\nthings. Many Masses were in progress at the Madeleine, and he heard one\nor two with a curious contentment, but they had no lesson for him,\nprobably because of the foreign element in the atmosphere, and he did\nnot pray. Still, he sat, chiefly, and watched, until he felt how entirely\nhe was a stranger here, and went out into the sun.\n\nHe made his way to the river, and lingered there long. The great\ncathedral, with its bare January trees silhouetted to the last twig\nagainst the clear sky, its massive buttresses, and its cluster of smaller\nbuildings, held his imagination. He went in, but they were beginning to\nsing Mass, and he soon came out. He crossed to the farther bank and found\na seat and lit a pipe. Sitting there, his imagination awoke. He conceived\nthe pageant of faith that had raised those walls. Kings and lords and\nknights, all the glitter and gold of the Middle Ages, had come there--and\ngone; Bishops and Archbishops, and even Popes, had had their day of\nsplendour there--and gone; the humbler sort, in the peasant dress of\nthe period, speaking quaint tongues, had brought their sorrows there and\ntheir joys--and gone; yet it seemed to him that they had not so surely\ngone. The great have their individual day and disappear, but the poor, in\ntheir corporate indistinguishableness remain. The multitude, petty in\ntheir trivial wants and griefs, find no historian and leave no monument.\nYet, ultimately, it was because of the Christian faith in the compassion\nof God for such that Notre-Dame lifted her towers to the sky. The stage\nfor the mighty doings of Kings, it was the home of the people. As he had\nseen them just now, creeping about the aisles, lighting little tapers,\ncrouched in a corner, so had they always been. Kings and Bishops figured\nfor a moment in pomp before the altar, and then monuments must be erected\nto their memory. But it was not so with the poor. Peter, in a glow of\nwarmth, considered that he was in truth one of them. And Jesus had\nhad compassion on the multitude, he remembered. The text recalled him,\nand he frowned to himself.\n\nHe knocked out his pipe, and set out leisurely to find luncheon. The\nfamous book-boxes held him, and he bought a print or two. In a restaurant\nnear the Châtelet he got _déjeuner_, and then, remembering Julie, bought\nand wrote a picture-postcard, and took a taxi for the Bois. He was\ndriven about for an hour or more, and watched the people lured out by the\nsun, watched the troops of all the armies, watched an aeroplane swing\nhigh over the trees and soar off towards Versailles. He discharged his\ncar at the Arc de Triomphe, and set about deciphering the carven\npictures. Then, he walked up the great Avenue, made his way to the\nPlace de la République, wandered through the gardens of the Louvre, and,\nas dusk fell, found himself in the Avenue de l'Opéra. It was very gay. He\nhad a bock at a little marble table, and courteously declined the\ninvitations of a lady of considerable age painted to look young. He at\nfirst simply refused, and finally cursed into silence, a weedy, flash\nyouth who offered to show him the sights of the city in an apparently\nascending scale till he reached the final lure of a _cancan_, and he\ndined greatly at a palace of a restaurant. Then, tired, he did not know\nwhat to do.\n\nA girl passing, smiled at him, and he smiled back. She came and sat down.\nHe looked bored, she told him, which was a thing one should not be in\nParis, and she offered to assist him to get rid of the plague.\n\n\"What do you suggest?\" he demanded.\n\nShe shrugged her shoulders--anything that he pleased.\n\n\"But I don't know what I want,\" he objected.\n\n\"Ah, well, I have a flat near,\" she said--\"a charming flat. We need not\nbe bored there.\"\n\nPeter demurred. He had to catch the midnight train. She made a little\ngesture; there was plenty of time.\n\nHe regarded her attentively. \"See, mademoiselle,\" he said, \"I do not want\nthat. But I am alone and I want company. Will you not stroll about Paris\nwith me for an hour or two, and talk?\"\n\nShe smiled. Monsieur was unreasonable. She had her time to consider; she\ncould not waste it.\n\nPeter took his case from his pocket and selected a note, folded it, and\nhanded it to her, without a word. She slipped it into her bag. \"Give me a\ncigarette,\" she said. \"Let us have one little glass here, and then we\nwill go on to an 'otel I know, and hear the band and see the dresses, and\ntalk--is it not so?\"\n\nHe could not have found a better companion. In the great lounge, later\non, leaning back by his side, she chatted shrewdly and with merriment.\nShe described dresses and laughed at his ignorance. She acclaimed certain\npieces, and showed a real knowledge of music. She told him of life in\nParis when the Hun had all but knocked at the gates, of the gaiety of\nrelief, of things big and little, of the flowers in the Bois in the\nspring. He said little, but enjoyed himself. Much later she went with him\nto the station, and they stood outside to say good-bye.\n\n\"Well, little girl,\" he said, \"you have given me a good evening, and I am\nvery grateful. But I do not even know your name. Tell it me, that I may\nremember.\"\n\n\"Mariette,\" she said. \"And will monsieur not take my card? He may be in\nParis again. He is très agréable; I should like much to content him. One\nmeets many, but there are few one would care to see again.\"\n\nPeter smiled sadly. For the first time a wistful note had crept into her\nvoice. He thought of others like her that he knew, and he spoke very\ntenderly. \"No, Mariette,\" he said. \"If I came back I might spoil a\nmemory. Good-bye. God bless you!\" and he held out his hand. She hesitated\na second. Then she turned back to the taxi.\n\n\"Where would you like to go?\" he demanded.\n\nShe leaned out and glanced up at the clock. \"L'Avenue de l'Opéra,\" she\nsaid, \"s'il vous plait.\"\n\nThe man thrust in the clutch with his foot, and Mariette was lost to\nPeter for ever in the multitude.\n\nIn Boulogne he heard that he was late for the first boat, but caught the\nsecond easily. Remembering Donovan's advice, he got his ticket for the\nPullman at once, and was soon rolling luxuriously to town. The station\nwas bustling as it had done what seemed to him an age before, but he\nstepped out with the feeling that he was no longer a fresher in the\nworld's or any other university. Declining assistance, he walked over to\nthe Grosvenor and engaged a room, dined, and then strolled out into\nVictoria Street.\n\nIt was all so familiar and it was all so different. He stood aloof and\nlooked at himself, and played with the thought. It was incredible that he\nwas the Peter Graham of less than a year before, and that he walked where\nhe had walked a score of times. He went up Whitehall, and across the\nSquare, and hesitated whether or not he should take the Strand. Deciding\nagainst it, he made his way to Piccadilly Circus and chose a music-hall\nthat advertised a world-famous comedian. He heard him and came out, still\nlaughing to himself, and then he walked down Piccadilly to Hyde Park\nCorner, and stood for a minute looking up Park Lane. Hilda ought to come\ndown, he said to himself amusedly. Then, marvelling that he could be\namused at all at the thought, he turned off for his hotel.\n\nIt is nothing to write down, but to Peter it was very much. Everything\nwas old, but everything was new to him. At his hotel he smoked a\ncigarette in the lounge just to watch the men and women who came and\nwent, and then he declined the lift and ascended the big staircase to his\nroom. As he went, it struck him why it was that he felt so much wiser\nthan he had been; that he looked on London from the inside, whereas he\nhad used to look from the outside only; that he looked with a charity of\nwhich he had never dreamed, and that he was amazingly content. And as he\ngot into bed he thought that when next he slept in town he would not be\nalone. He would have crossed Tommy's Rubicon.\n\nNext morning he went down into the country to relations who did not\ninterest him at all; but he walked and rode and enjoyed the English\ncountryside with zest. He went to the little country church on the Sunday\ntwice, to Matins and Evensong, and he came home and read that chapter of\nMr. Wells' book in which Mr. Britling expounds the domestication of God.\nAnd he had some fierce moments in which he thought of Louise, and of\nLucienne's sister, and of Mariette, and of Pennell, and, last of all, of\nJenks, and asked himself of what use a domesticated God could be to any\nof them. And then on the Thursday he came up to meet Julie.\n\nIt thrilled him that she was in England somewhere and preparing to come\nto him. His pulses beat so as he thought of it that every other\nconsideration was temporarily driven from his mind; but presently he\ncaught himself thinking what ought to be done, and of what she would be\nlike. He turned it over in his mind. He had known her in France,\nin uniform, when he was not sure of her; but now, what would she be like?\nHe could not conceive, and he banished the idea. It would be more\nsplendid when it occurred if he had made no imaginary construction of it.\n\nHis station was King's Cross, and he took a taxi to a big central hotel\nin the neighbourhood of Regent Street. And as he passed its doors they\nclosed irrevocably on his past.\n\nThe girl at the bureau looked up and smiled. \"Good-morning,\" she said.\n\"What can I do for you? We are very full.\"\n\n\"Good-morning,\" he replied. \"I expect you are, but my wife is coming up\nto town this afternoon, and we have only a few days together. We want to\nbe as central as possible. Have you a small suite over the week-end?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" she said, and pulled the big book toward her. She\nran a finger down the page. \"Four-twenty,\" she said--\"double bedroom,\nsitting-room, and bathroom, how would that do?\"\n\n\"It sounds capital,\" said Peter. \"May I go and see it?\"\n\nShe turned in her seat, reached for a key, and touched a button. A man\nappeared, soundlessly on the thick, rich carpet. \"Show this officer\nfour-twenty, will you?\" she said, and turned to someone else. What means\nso much to some of us is everyday business to others.\n\nPeter followed across the hall and into a lift. They went up high, got\nout in a corridor, took a turn to the right, and stopped before a door\nnumbered 420. The man opened it. Peter was led into a little hall, with\ntwo doors leading from it. The first room was the sitting-room. It was\ncharmingly furnished and very cosy, a couple of good prints on the\nwalls, wide fireplace, a tall standard lamp, some delightfully easy\nchairs--all this he took in at a glance. He walked to the window and\nlooked out. Far below was the great thoroughfare, and beyond a wilderness\nof roofs and spires. He stood and gazed at it. London seemed a different\nplace up there. He felt remote, and looked again into the street. Its\nbusiness rolled on indifferent to him, and unaware. He glanced back into\nthe snug pretty little room. How easy it all was, how secure! \"This is\nexcellent,\" he said, \"Show me the bedroom.\"\n\n\"This way, sir,\" said, the man.\n\nThe bedroom was large and airy. A pretty light paper covered the walls,\nand two beds stood against one of them, side by side. The sun shone in at\nthe big double windows and fell on the white paint of the woodwork, the\nplate-glass tops of the toilet-tables, and the thick cream-coloured\ncarpet. A door was open on his right. He walked across, and looked in\nthere too. A tiled bathroom, he saw it was, the clean towels on the\nhighly polished brass rail heated by steam, the cork-mat against the\nwall, the shower, douche, and spray all complete, even the big cake of\ndelicious-looking soap on its sliding rack across the bath. He looked as\na man in a fairy-story might look. It was as if an enchanted palace, with\nthe princess just round the corner, had been offered him. Smiling at the\nconceit, he turned to the man. \"I didn't notice the telephone,\" he said;\n\"I suppose it is installed?\"\n\n\"In each room, sir,\" said the man.\n\n\"That will do,\" said Peter. \"It will suit me admirably. Have my baggage\nsent up, will you, and say that I engage the suite. I will be down\npresently.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said the man, and departed.\n\nPeter went back to the sitting-room, and threw himself into a chair. Then\nhe had an idea, got up, went to the telephone, ordered a bottle of whisky\nto be sent up, and a siphon, and went back to his seat. Presently he was\npouring himself out a drink and smoking a cigarette on his own\n(temporary) hearth-rug. The little incident increased his satisfaction.\nHe was reassuring himself. Here he was really safe and remote and master,\nwith a thousand servants and a huge palace at his beck and call, and all\nfor a few pounds! It was absurd, but he thought to himself that he was\nfeeling civilised for the first time, perhaps.\n\nHe looked round, and considered Julie. What would she want? Flowers to\nbegin with, heaps of them; she liked violets for one thing, and by hook\nor by crook he would get a little wattle or mimosa to remind her of\nAfrica. Then chocolates and cigarettes, both must never be lacking, and\na few books--no, not books, magazines; and he would have some wine sent\nup. What else? Biscuits; after the theatre they might be jolly. Ah, the\ntheatre! he must book seats. Well, a box would be better; they did not\nwant to run too great a risk of being seen. Donovan was quite possibly in\ntown, to say nothing of--older friends. Possibly, considering the run on\nthe theatres, he had better book up fairly completely for the days they\nhad together. But what would she like? Julie would never want to go if\nshe did not spontaneously fancy a play. It was a portentous question, and\nhe considered it long. Finally he decided on half-and-half measures,\nleaving some time free.... Time! how did it go? By Jove! he ought to make\na move. Luncheon first; his last meal alone for some time; then order the\nthings; and Victoria at 5.30. He poured himself another short drink and\nwent out.\n\nHe lunched in a big public grill-room, and chatted with a naval officer\nat his table who was engaged in mine-sweeping with a steam-tramp. The\nlatter was not vastly enthusiastic over things, but was chiefly depressed\nbecause he had to report at a naval base that night, and his short London\nleave was all but run out.\n\n\"Tell you what,\" he said, \"I've seen a good many cities one way and\nanother, from San Francisco to Singapore, and I know Paris and Brussels\nand Berlin, but you can take my word for it, there's no better place for\nten days' leave than this same old blessed London. You can have some\nspree out East if you want it, but you can get much the same, if not\nbetter, here. If a fellow wants a bit of a skirt, he can get as good a\npick in London as anywhere. If you want a good show, there isn't another\nspot in the universe that can beat it, whatever it is you feel like. If\nyou want to slip out of sight for a bit, give me a big hotel like this\nin London. They don't damn-well worry about identification papers much\nhere--too little, p'raps, these days. Did you hear of those German\nsubmarine officers who lived in an hotel in Southampton?\"\n\nPeter had; there were few people who hadn't, seeing that the same\nofficers lived in most of the coast towns in England that year; but it is\na pity to damp enthusiasm. He said he had heard a little.\n\n\"Walked in and out cool as you please. When they were drowned and picked\nup at sea, they had bills and theatre tickets in their pockets, and a\nletter acknowledging the booking of rooms for the next week! Fact. Had it\nfrom the fellow who got 'em. And I ask you, what is there to prevent\nit? You come here: 'Will you write your name and regiment, please.' You\nwrite the damned thing--any old thing, in fact--and what happens?\nNothing. They don't refer to them. In France the lists go to a central\nbureau every day, but here--Lord bless you, the Kaiser himself might put\nup anywhere if he shaved his moustache!\"\n\nPeter heard him, well content. He offered a cigarette, feeling warmly\ndisposed towards the world at large. The naval officer took it. \"Thanks,\"\nhe said. \"You in town for long?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Peter--\"a week end. I've only just happened. What's worth\nseeing?\"\n\n\"First and last all the way, _Carminetta_. It's a dream. Wonderful. By\nGad, I don't know how that girl does it! Then I'd try _Zigzag_--oh! and\ngo to _You Never Know, You Know_, at the Cri. Absolutely toppin'. A\nperfect scream all through. The thing at Daly's' good too; but all the\nshows are good, though, I reckon. Lumme, you wouldn't think the war was\non, 'cept they all touch it a bit! _The Better 'Ole_ I like, but you\nmightn't, knowing the real thing. But don't miss _Carminetta_ if you have\nto stand all day for a seat in the gods. Well, I must be going. Damned\nrough luck, but no help for it. Let's have a last spot, eh?\"\n\nPeter agreed, and the drinks were ordered. \"Chin-chin,\" said his\nacquaintance. \"And here's to old London town, and the Good Lord let me\nsee it again. It's less than even chances,\" he added reflectively.\n\n\"Here's luck,\" said Peter; then, for he couldn't help it: \"It's you\nchaps, by God, that are winning this war!\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know,\" said the other, rising. \"We get more leave than you\nfellows, and I'd sooner be on my tramp than in the trenches. The sea's\ngood and clean to die in, anyway. Cheerio.\"\n\nPeter followed him out in a few minutes, and set about his shopping. He\nfound a florist's in Regent Street and bought lavishly. The girl smiled\nat him, and suggested this and that. \"Having a dinner somewhere\nto-night?\" she queried. \"But I have no violets.\"\n\n\"Got my girl comin' up,\" said Peter expansively; \"that's why there must\nbe violets. See if you can get me some and send them over, will you?\" he\nasked, naming his hotel. She promised to do her best, and he departed.\n\nHe went into a chocolate shop. \"Got some really decent chocolates?\" he\ndemanded.\n\nThe girl smiled and dived under the counter. \"These are the best,\" she\nsaid, holding out a shovelful for Peter to taste. He tried one. \"They'll\ndo,\" he said. \"Give me a couple of pounds, in a pretty box if you've got\none.\"\n\n\"Two pounds!\" she exclaimed. \"What are you thinking of? We can only sell\na quarter.\"\n\n\"Only a quarter!\" said Peter. \"That's no good. Come on, make up the two\npounds.\"\n\n\"If my boss comes in or finds out I'll be fired,\" said the girl; \"can't\nbe done.\"\n\n\"Well, that doesn't matter,\" said Peter innocently, \"You'll easily get a\njob--something better and easier, I expect.\"\n\n\"It's easy enough, perhaps,\" said the girl, \"but you never can tell.\n_And_ it's dangerous, _and_ uncertain.\"\n\nPeter stared at her. When he bought chocolates as a parson, he never had\ntalks like this. He wondered if London had changed since he knew it. Then\nhe played up: \"You're pretty enough to knock that last out, anyway?\" he\nsaid.\n\n\"Am I?\" she demanded. \"Do you mean you'd like to keep me?\"\n\n\"I've got one week-end left of leave,\" said Peter. \"What about the\nchocolates?\"\n\n\"Poor boy!\" she said. \"Well, I'll risk it.\" And she made up the two\npounds.\n\nHe wandered into a tobacconist's, and bought cigarettes which Julie's\nsoul loved, and then he made for a theatre booking-office.\n\nOutside and his business done, he looked at his watch, and found he had a\nbit of time to spare. He walked down Shaftesbury Avenue, and thought he\nwould get himself spruced up at a hairdresser's. He saw a little place\nwith a foreigner at the door, and he went in. It was a tiny room with\nthree seats all empty. The man seated him in one and began.\n\nPeter discovered that his hair needed this and that, and being in a good\ntemper and an idle mood acquiesced. Presently a girl came in. Peter smelt\nher enter, and then saw her in the glass. She was short and dark and\nforeign, too, and she wore a blouse that appeared to have remarkably\nlittle beneath it, and to be about to slip off her shoulders. She came\nforward and stood between him and the glass, smiling. \"Wouldn't you like\nyour nails manicured?\" she demanded.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know,\" said Peter; \"I had not meant to ...\" and was lost.\n\n\"Second thoughts are best,\" she said; \"but let me look at your hands.\nOh, I should think you did need it! Whatever will your girl say to you\nto-night if you have hands like this?\"\n\nPeter, humiliated, looked at his hands. They did not appear to him to\ndiffer much from the hands Julie and others had seen without visible\nconsternation before, but he had no time to say so. The young lady was\nnow seated by his side with a basin of hot water, and was dabbling his\nhand in it. \"Nice? Not too hot?\" she inquired brightly.\n\nPeter watched her as she bent over her work and kept up a running fire of\ntalk. He gathered that many officers habitually were manicured by her,\nmany of them in their own rooms. It was lucky for him that she was not\nout. Possibly he would like to make an appointment; she could come early\nor late. No? Then she thought his own manicure-set must be a poor one,\njudging from these hands, and perhaps she could sell him another. No?\nWell, a little cream. Not to-day? He would look in to-morrow? He\nhadn't a chance? She would tell him what: where was he staying? (Peter,\nfor the fun of it, told her he had a private suite in the hotel.) Well,\nthat was splendid. She would call in with a new set at any time, before\nbreakfast, after the theatre, as he pleased; bring the cream and do his\nhands once with it to show him how. How would that suit him?\n\nPeter was not required to say, for at that minute the shop-bell rang and\na priest came in, a little old man, tired-looking, in a black cassock. He\nwas apparently known, though he seemed to take no notice of anyone. The\nman was all civility, but put on an expression meant to indicate\namusement, to Peter, behind the clerical back. The girl put one of\nPeter's fingers on her own lips by way of directing caution, and\ncontinued more or less in silence. The room became all but silent save\nfor the sound of scissors and the noise of the traffic outside, and Peter\nreflected again on many things. When he had had his hair cut previously,\nfor instance, had people made faces behind his back? Had young ladies\nceased from tempting offers that seemed to include more than manicuring?\n\nHe got up to pay. \"Well,\" she demanded, _sotto voce_, \"what of the\narrangement? She could do him easily at any...\"\n\nHe cut her short. No; it was really impossible. His wife was coming up\nthat afternoon. It was plain that she now regarded it as impossible also.\nHe paid an enormous sum wonderingly, and departed.\n\nOutside it struck him that he had forgotten one thing. He walked briskly\nto the hotel, and went up to his rooms. In the sitting-room was the big\nbunch of flowers and a maid unwrapping it. She turned and smiled at him.\n\"These have just come for you, sir,\" she said. \"Shall I arrange them for\nyou?\"\n\n\"No, thank you,\" said Peter. \"I'd rather do them myself. I love arranging\nflowers, and I know just what my wife likes. I expect you'd do them\nbetter, but I'll have a shot, if you don't mind. Would you fill the\nglasses and get me a few more? We haven't enough here.\"\n\n\"Certainly, sir. There was a gentleman here once who did flowers\nbeautifully, he did. But most likes us to do it for them.\"\n\nShe departed for the glasses. Peter saw that the florist had secured his\nviolets, and took them first and filled a bowl. Then he walked into the\nbedroom and contemplated for a minute. Then he put the violets critically\non the little table by the bed nearest the window, and stood back to see\nthe result. Finding it good, he departed. When next he came in, it was to\nplace a great bunch of roses on the mantelshelf, and a few sprays of the\nsoft yellow and green mimosa on the dressing-table. For the sitting-room\nhe had carnations and delphiniums, and he placed a high towering cluster\nof the latter on the writing-table, and a vase of the former on the\nmantelpiece. A few roses, left over, went on the small table that carried\nthe reading-lamp, and he and the chambermaid surveyed the results.\n\n\"Lovely, I do think,\" she said; \"any lady would love them. I likes\nflowers myself, I do. I come from the country, sir, where there's a many,\nand the wild flowers that Jack and I liked best of all. Specially\nprimroses, sir.\" There was a sound in her voice as she turned away, and\nPeter heard it.\n\n\"Jack?\" he queried softly.\n\n\"'E's been missing since last July, sir,\" she said, stopping by the door.\n\n\"Has he?\" said Peter. \"Well, you must not give up hope, you know; he may\nbe a prisoner.\"\n\nShe shook her head. \"He's dead,\" she said, with an air of finality. \"I\noughtn't to have spoke a word, but them flowers reminded me. I'm glad as\nhow I have to do these rooms, sir. Most of them don't bother with\nflowers. Is there anything else you might be wanting, sir?\"\n\n\"Light fires in both the grates, please,\" he said. \"I'm so sorry about\nJack,\" he added.\n\nShe gave him a look, and passed out.\n\nPeter wandered about touching this and that. Suddenly he remembered the\nmagazines. He ran out and caught a lift about to descend, and was once\nmore in the street. Near Leicester Square was a big foreign shop, and he\nentered it, and gathered of all kinds. As he went to pay, he saw _La Vie\nParisienne_, and added that also to the bundle; Julie used to say she\nloved it. Back in the hotel, he sent them to his room, and glanced at his\nwatch. He had time for tea. He went out into the lounge and ordered it,\nsitting back under the palms. It came, and he was in the act of pouring\nout a cup when he saw Donovan.\n\nDonovan was with a girl, but so were most men; Peter could not be sure\nof her. It was only a glimpse he had, for the two had finished and were\npassing out. Donovan stood back to let her first through the great\nswing-doors, and then, pulling on his gloves, followed. They both\ndisappeared.\n\nPeter sat on, in a tumult. He had been too busy all day to reflect much,\nbut now just what he was about to do began to overwhelm him. If Donovan\nmet him with Julie? Well, they could pretend they had just met, they\ncould even part, and meet again. Could they? Would Donovan be deceived\nfor a minute? It seemed to him impossible. And he might be staying there.\nSuppose he met someone else. Langton? Sir Robert Doyle? His late Vicar?\nHilda? Mr. Lessing? And Julie would have acquaintances too. He shook\nhimself mentally, and lit a cigarette. Well, suppose they did; he was\nfinished with them. Finished? Then, what lay ahead--what, after this, if\nhe were discovered? And if he were not discovered? God knew....\n\nHis mind took a new train of thought: he was now just such a one as\nDonovan. Or as Pennell. As Langton? He wasn't sure; no, he thought not;\nLangton kept straight because he had a wife and kids. He had a centre.\nDonovan and Pennell had not, apparently. Well, he, Peter Graham, would\nhave a centre; he would marry Julie. It would be heavenly. They had not\nspoken of it, of course, that night of the dinner, but surely Julie\nwould. There could be no doubt after the week-end.... \"I shan't marry or\nbe given in marriage,\" she had said. It was like her to speak so, but\nof course she didn't mean it. No, he would marry; and then?\n\nHe blew out smoke. The Colonies, South Africa; he would get a job\nschoolmastering? He hated the idea; it didn't interest him. A farm? He\nknew nothing about it--besides, one wanted capital. What would he do?\nWhat did he want to do? _Want_--that was it; how did he want to spend his\nlife? Well, he wanted Julie; everything else would fit round her,\neverything else would be secondary beside her. Of course. And as he got\nold it would still be the same, though he could not imagine either of\nthem old. But still, when they did get old, his work would seem more\nimportant, and what was it to be? Probably it would have to be\nschoolmastering. Teaching Latin to little boys--History, Geography,\nMathematics. He smiled ruefully; even factors worried him. They would\nhardly want Latin and Greek much in the Colonies, either. Perhaps at\nhome; but would Julie stop at home? What _would_ Julie do? He must\nask her, sometime before Monday. Not that night--no, not _that_ night....\n\nHe ground his cigarette into his cup, and pushed his hands into his\npockets, his feet out before him. That night! He saw the sitting-room\nupstairs; they would go there first. Then he would suggest a dinner to\nher, in Soho; he knew a place that Pennell had told him of, Bohemian, but\none could take anyone--at least, take Julie. It would be jolly watching\nthe people, and watching Julie. He saw her, mentally, opposite him, and\nher eyes sparkling and alluring. And afterwards, warmed and fed--why,\nback to the hotel, to the sitting-room, by the fire. They would have a\nlittle supper, and then....\n\nHe pictured the bedroom. He would let Julie go first. He remembered\nreading in a novel how some newly married wife said to the fellow:\n\"You'll come up in half an hour or so, won't you, dear?\" He could all but\nsee the words in print. And so, in half an hour or so, he would go in,\nand Julie would be in bed, by the violets, and he--he would know what men\ntalked about, sometimes, in the anteroom.... He recalled a red-faced,\ncoarse Colonel: \"No man's a man till he's been all the way, I say....\"\n\nAnd he was a chaplain, a priest. Was he? The past months spun before him,\nhis sermons, his talks to the wounded at the hospital, the things he had\nseen, the stories he had heard. He sighed. It was all a dream, a sham.\nThere was no reality in it all. Where and what was Christ? An ideal, yes,\nbut no more than an ideal, and unrealisable--a vision of the beautiful.\nHe thought he had seen that once, but not now. The beautiful! Ah! What\nplace had His Beauty in Travalini's, in the shattered railway-carriage,\nin the dinner at the Grand in Havre with Julie?\n\nJulie. He dwelt on her, eyes, hair, face, skin, and lithe figure. He felt\nher kisses again on his lips, those last burning kisses of New Year's\nNight, and they were all to be his, as never before.... Julie. What,\nthen, was she? She was his bride, his wife, coming to him consecrate--not\nby any State convention, not by any ceremony of man-made religion, but by\nthe pure passion of human love, virginal, clean. It was human passion,\nperhaps, but where was higher love or greater sacrifice? Was this not\nworthy of all his careful preparation, worthy of the one centre of his\nbeing? Donovan, indeed! He wished he had stopped and told him the whole\nstory, and that he expected Julie that night.\n\nHe jumped up, and walked out in the steps of Donovan, but with never\nanother thought of him. A boy in uniform questioned him: \"Taxi, sir?\" He\nnodded, and the commissionaire pushed back the great swing-door. He stood\non the steps, and watched the passers-by, and the lights all shaded as\nthey were, that began to usher in a night of mystery. His taxi rolled up,\nand the man held the door open. \"Victoria!\" cried Peter, and to himself,\nas he sank back on the seat, \"Julie!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\n\"Julie!\" exclaimed Peter, \"I should hardly have known you; you do look\ntopping!\"\n\n\"Glad rags make all that difference, old boy? Well, I am glad you did\nknow me, anyhow. How are you? Had long to wait?\"\n\n\"Only ten minutes or so, and I'm very fit, and just dying for you,\nJulie.\"\n\nShe smiled up at him and blushed a little. \"Are you, Peter? It's much the\nsame here, my dear. But don't you think we had better get a move on, and\nnot stop here talking all night?\"\n\nPeter laughed excitedly. \"Rather,\" he said. \"But I'm so excited at seeing\nyou that I hardly know if I'm on my head or my heels. What about your\nluggage? What have you? Have you any idea where it is? There's a taxi\nwaiting.\"\n\n\"I haven't much: a big suit-case, most important because it holds an\nevening dress--it's marked with my initials; a small leather trunk,\nborrowed, with a big star on it; and my dressing-case, which is here. And\nI _think_ they're behind, but I wouldn't swear, because we've seemed to\nturn round three times in the course of the journey, but it may have\nbeen four!\"\n\nPeter chuckled. She was just the old Julie, but yet with a touch of\nsomething more shining in her eyes, and underlying even the simplest\nwords.\n\n\"Well, you stand aside just a moment and I'll go and see,\" he said, and\nhe hurried off in the crowd.\n\nJulie stood waiting patiently by a lamp-stand while the world bustled\nabout her. She wore a little hat with a gay pheasant's wing in it, a dark\ngreen travelling dress and neat brown shoes, and brown silk stockings.\nMost people looked at her as they passed, including several officers, but\nthere was a different look in her brown eyes from that usually there, and\nthey all passed on unhesitatingly.\n\nIt seemed to her a good while before Peter came up again, in his wake a\nrailway Amazon with the trunk on her shoulder and the suit-case in her\nhand. \"Sorry to keep you, dear,\" he said. \"But there was a huge crush and\nnext to no porters, if these _are_ porters. It feels rotten to have a\nwoman carrying one's luggage, but I suppose it can't be helped. Come on.\nAren't you tired? Don't you want tea?\"\n\n\"I am a little,\" she said \"And I do a bit. Where are we going to get it?\nDo they sell teas in London, Peter, or have you taken a leaf out of my\nbook?\"\n\nThey laughed at the reminiscence. \"Julie,\" said Peter, \"this is my\noutfit, and you shall see what you think of it. Give me your ticket, will\nyou? I want to see you through myself.\"\n\nShe handed him a little purse without a word, and they set off together.\nShe was indulging in the feeling of surrender as if it were not a victory\nshe had won, and he was glowing with the sense of acquisition, as if he\nhad really acquired something.\n\nJulie got into the taxi while Peter settled the luggage, gave directions,\nand paid the Amazon. Then he climbed in and pulled the door to, and they\nslipped out of the crowded station-yard into the roar of London. Julie\nput her hand in his. \"Peter,\" she said, \"do tell me where we're going.\nI'm dying to know. What arrangements have you made? Is it safe?\"\n\nHe leaned over her, his eyes sparkling. \"A kiss, first, Julie: no one\nwill see and it doesn't matter a damn if they do. That's the best of\nLondon. My dear, I can hardly believe we're both here at last, and that\nI've really got you.\" Their lips met.\n\nJulie flung herself back with a laugh. \"Oh, Peter,\" she said, \"I shall\nnever forget that first taxi. If you could have seen your own face!\nReally it was too comic, but I must say you've changed since then.\"\n\n\"I was a fool and a beast,\" he said, more gravely; \"I'm only just\nbeginning to realise how much of a fool. But don't rub it in, Julie, or\nnot just now. I'm starting to live at last, and I don't want to be\nreminded of the past.\"\n\nShe pressed his hand and looked out of window. \"Where are we, Peter?\nWhitehall? Where are we off to?\"\n\n\"I've got the snuggest little suite in all London, darling,\" he said,\n\"with a fairy palace at our beck and call. I've been revelling in it all\nday--not exactly in it, you know, but in the thought of it. I've been too\nbusy shopping to be in much; and Julie, I hope you notice my hands: I've\nhad a special manicure in preparation for you. And the girl is coming\nround to-morrow before breakfast to do me again--or at least she wanted\nto.\"\n\n\"What are you talking about? Peter, what have you been doing to-day?\" She\nsighed a mock sigh. \"Really, you're getting beyond me; it's rather\ntrying.\"\n\nPeter launched out into the story to fill up time. He really did not want\nto speak of the rooms, that they might give her the greater surprise. So\nhe kept going till the taxi stopped before the hotel. He jumped out gaily\nas the commissionaire opened the door.\n\n\"Come on,\" he said, \"as quick as ever you can.\" Then, to the man: \"Have\nthese sent up to No. 420, will you, please?\" And he took Julie's arm.\n\nThey went in at the great door, and crossed the wide entrance-hall.\nEveryone glanced at Julie, Peter noted proudly, even the girls behind the\nsweet-counter, and the people waiting about as always. Julie held her\nhead high and walked more sedately than usual. She _was_ a bit different,\nthought Peter, but even nicer. He glowed at the thought.\n\nHe led her to the lift and gave his landing number. They walked down the\ncorridor in silence and in at their door. Peter opened the door on the\nleft and stood back. Julie went in. He followed and shut the door behind\nthem.\n\nThe maid had lit a fire, which blazed merrily. Julie took it all in--the\nflowers, the pile of magazines, even the open box of cigarettes, and she\nturned enthusiastically to him and flung her arms round his neck, kissing\nhim again and again. \"Oh, Peter darling,\" she cried, \"I can't tell you\nhow I love you! I could hardly sit still in the railway carriage, and the\ntrain seemed worse than a French one. But now I have you at last, and all\nto myself. Oh, Peter, my darling Peter!\"\n\nThere came a knock at the door. Julie disengaged her arms from his neck,\nbut slipped her hand in his, and he said, \"Come in.\"\n\nThe maid entered, carrying tea. She smiled at them. \"I thought madame\nmight like tea at once, sir,\" she said, and placed the tray on the little\ntable.\n\n\"Thank you ever so much,\" said Julie impulsively; \"that is good of you.\nI'm longing for it. One gets so tired in the train.\" Then she walked to\nthe glass. \"I'll take off my hat, Peter,\" she said, \"and my coat, and\nthen we'll have tea comfortably. I do want it, and a cigarette. You're an\nangel to have thought of my own De Reszke.\"\n\nShe threw herself into a big basket chair, and leaned over to the table.\n\"Milk and sugar for you, Peter? By the way, I ought to know these things;\nnot that it much matters; ours was a war marriage, and I've hardly seen\nyou at all!\"\n\nPeter sat opposite, and watched her pour out. She leaned back with a\npiece of toast in her hands, her eyes on him, and they smiled across at\neach other. Suddenly he could bear it no longer. He put his cup down and\nknelt forward at her feet, his arms on her knees, devouring her. \"Oh,\nJulie,\" he said, \"I want to worship you--I do indeed. I can't believe\nmy luck. I can't think that _you_ love _me_.\"\n\nHer white teeth bit into the toast. \"You old silly,\" she said. \"But I\ndon't want to be worshipped; I _won't_ be worshipped; I want to be loved,\nPeter.\"\n\nHe put his arms up, and pulled her head down to his, kissing her again\nand again, stroking her arm, murmuring foolish words that meant nothing\nand meant everything. It was she who stopped him. \"Go and sit down,\" she\nsaid, \"and tell me all the plans.\"\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"I do hope you'll like them. First, I've not booked up\nanything for to-night. I thought we'd go out to dinner to a place I know\nand sit over it, and enjoy ourselves. It's a place in Soho, and quite\nhumorous, I think. Then we might walk back: London's so perfect at night,\nisn't it? To-morrow I've got seats for the Coliseum matinee. You know it,\nof course; it's a jolly place where one can talk if one wants to, and\nsmoke; and then I've seats in the evening for _Zigzag_. Saturday night\nwe're going to see _Carminetta_, which they say is the best show in town,\nand Saturday morning we can go anywhere you please, or do anything. And\nwe can cut out any of them if you like,\" he added.\n\nShe let her arms lie along the chair, and drew a breath of delight.\n\"You're truly wonderful,\" she said. \"What a blessing not having to worry\nwhat's to be done! It's a perfect programme. I only wish we could be in\nParis for Sunday; it's so slow here.\"\n\nHe smiled. \"You're sure you're not bored about to-night?\" he asked. She\nlooked him full in the eyes and said nothing. He sprang up and rushed\ntowards her. She laughed her old gay laugh, and avoided him, jumping up\nand getting round the table. \"No,\" she warned; \"no more now. Come and\nshow me the rest of the establishment.\"\n\nArm in arm they made the tour of inspection. In the bathroom Julie's eyes\ndanced. \"Thank the Lord for that bath, Peter,\" she said. \"I shall revel\nin it. That's one thing I loathe about France, that one can't get decent\nbaths, and in the country here it's no better. I had two inches of water\nin a foot-bath down in Sussex, and when you sit in the beastly thing only\nabout three inches of yourself get wet and those the least important\ninches. I shall lie in this for hours and smoke, and you shall feed me\nwith chocolates and read to me. How will you like that?\"\n\nPeter made the only possible answer, and they went back to the bedroom.\nThe man was bringing up her luggage, and he deposited it on the\nluggage-stool. \"Heavens!\" said Julie, \"where are my keys? Oh, I know, in\nmy purse. I hope you haven't lost it. Do give it to me. The suit-case is\nbeautifully packed, but the trunk is in an appalling mess. I had to throw\nmy things in anyhow. By the way, I wonder what they'll make of different\ninitials on all our luggage? Not that it matters a scrap, especially\nthese days. Besides, I don't suppose they noticed.\"\n\nShe was on her knees by the trunk, and had undone it. She lifted the lid,\nand Peter saw the confusion inside, and caught sight of the unfamiliar\nclothes, Julie was rummaging everywhere. \"I know I've left them behind!\"\nshe exclaimed. \"Whatever shall I do? My scent and powder-puff! Peter,\nit's terrible! I can't go to Soho to dinner without them.\"\n\n\"Let's go and get some,\" he suggested; \"there's time.\"\n\n\"No, I can't,\" she said. \"You go. Don't be long. I want to sit in front\nof the fire and be cosy.\"\n\nPeter set off on the unfamiliar errand, smiling grimly to himself. He got\nthe scent easily enough, and then inquired for a powder-puff. In the old\ndays he would scarcely have dared; but he had been in France. He selected\na little French box with a mirror in the lid and a pretty rosebud\npattern, and paid for it unblushingly. Then he returned.\n\nHe opened the door of their sitting-room, and stood transfixed for a\nminute. The shaded reading-lamp was on, the other lights off. The fire\nglowed red, and Julie lay stretched out in a big chair, smoking a\ncigarette. She turned and looked up at him over her shoulder. She had\ntaken off her dress and slipped on a silk kimono, letting her hair down,\nwhich fell in thick tumbled masses about her. The arm that held the\ncigarette was stretched up above her, and the wide, loose sleeve of the\nkimono had slipped back, leaving it bare to her shoulder. Her white\nfrilled petticoat showed beneath, as she had pushed her feet out before\nher to the warmth of the fire. Peter's blood pounded in his temples.\n\n\"Good boy,\" she said; \"you haven't been long. Come and show me. I had to\nget comfortable: I hope you don't mind.\"\n\nHe came slowly forward without a word and bent over her. The scent of her\nrose intoxicatingly around him as he bent down for a kiss. Their lips\nclung together, and the wide world stood still.\n\nJulie made room for him beside her. \"You dear old thing,\" she exclaimed\nat the sight of the powder-puff. \"It's a gem. You couldn't have bettered\nit in Paris.\" She opened it, took out the little puff, and dabbed her\nopen throat. Then, laughing, she dabbed at him: \"Don't look so solemn,\"\nshe said, \"Solomon!\"\n\nPeter slipped one arm round her beneath the kimono, and felt her warm\nrelaxed waist. Then he pushed his other hand, unresisted, in where her\nwhite throat gleamed bare and open to him, and laid his lips on her hair.\n\"Oh, Julie,\" he said, \"I had no idea one could love so. It is almost more\nthan I can bear.\"\n\nThe clock on the mantelpiece struck a half-hour, and Julie stirred in his\narms and glanced up. \"Good Lord, Peter!\" she exclaimed, \"do you know what\nthe time is? Half-past seven! I shall never be dressed, and we shall get\nno dinner. Let me up, for goodness sake, and give me a drink if you've\ngot such a thing. If not, ring for it. I shall never have energy enough\nto get into my things otherwise.\"\n\nPeter opened the little door of the sideboard and got out decanter,\nsiphon, and glasses. Julie, sitting up and arranging herself, smiled at\nhim. \"Is there a single thing you haven't thought of, you old dear?\" she\nsaid.\n\n\"Say when,\" said Peter, coming towards her. Then he poured himself out a\ntumbler and stood by the fire, looking at her.\n\n\"It's a pity we have to go out at all,\" he said, \"for I suppose you can't\ngo like that.\"\n\n\"A pity? It's a jolly good thing. You wait till you've seen my frock, my\ndear. But, Peter, do you think there's likely to be anyone there that we\nknow?\"\n\nHe shook his head. \"Not there, at any rate,\" he said.\n\n\"Here?\"\n\n\"More likely, but it's such a big place we're not likely to meet them,\neven so. But if you feel nervous, do you know the best cure? Come down\ninto the lounge, and see the crowd of people. You sit there and people\nstream by, and you don't know a face. It's the most comfortable, feeling\nin the world. One's more alone than on a desert island. You might be a\nghost that no one sees.\"\n\nJulie shuddered. \"Peter don't! You make me feel creepy.\" She got up \"Go\nand find that maid, will you? I want her to help me dress.\"\n\nPeter walked to the bell and rang it, \"Where do I come in?\" he asked.\n\n\"Well, you can go and wash in the bathroom, and if you're frightened of\nher you can dress there!\" And she walked to the door laughing.\n\n\"I'll just finish my drink,\" he said. \"You will be heaps longer than I.\"\n\nFive minutes later, having had no answer to his ring, he switched off the\nlight, and walked out into the hall He hesitated at Julie's door, then he\ntapped. \"Come in,\" she said.\n\nShe was standing half-dressed in front of the glass doing her hair, \"Oh,\nit's you, is it?\" she said. \"Wherever is that maid? I can't wait all\nnight for her; you'll have to help.\"\n\nPeter sat down and began to change. Half-surreptitiously he watched Julie\nmoving about, and envied her careless abandon. He was much the more\nnervous of the two.\n\nPresently she called him from the bathroom to fasten her dress. When it\nwas done, she stood back for him to examine her.\n\n\"That all right?\" she demanded, putting a touch here and there.\n\nNot every woman could have worn her gown. It was a rose pink with some\nrich flame-coloured material in front, and was held by two of the\nnarrowest bands on her shoulders. In the deep _décolleté_ she pushed\ntwo rosebuds from the big bunch, and hung round her neck a pendant of\nmother-of-pearl and silver. She wore no other jewellery, and she needed\nnone. She faced him, a vision of loveliness.\n\nThey went down the stairs together and out into the crush of people, some\nof the women in evening dress, but few of the men. The many uniforms\nlooked better, Peter thought, despite the drab khaki. They had to stand\nfor awhile while a taxi was found, Julie laughing and chatting\nvivaciously. She had a wrap for her shoulders that she had bought in Port\nSaid, set with small metallic points, and it sparkled about her in the\nblaze of light. She flattered him by seeming unconscious of anyone else,\nand put her hand on his arm as they went out.\n\nThey drove swiftly through back-streets to the restaurant that Peter had\nselected, and stopped in a quiet, dark, narrow road off Greek Street.\nJulie got out and looked around with pretended fear. \"Where in the world\nhave you brought me?\" she demanded. \"However did you find the place?\nIt's worse than some of your favourite places in Havre.\"\n\nInside, however, she looked round appreciatively. \"Really, Peter, it's\nsplendid,\" she said under her breath--\"just the place,\" and smiled\nsweetly on the padrone who came forward, bowing. Peter had engaged a\ntable, and they were led to it.\n\n\"I had almost given you up, sir,\" said the man, \"but by good fortune,\nsome of our patrons are late too.\"\n\nThey sat down opposite to each other, and studied the menu held out to\nthem by a waiter. \"I don't know the meaning of half the dishes,\" laughed\nJulie. \"You order. It'll be more fun if I don't know what's coming.\"\n\n\"We must drink Chianti,\" said Peter, and ordered a bottle. \"You can think\nyou are in Italy.\"\n\nElbows on the table as she waited, Julie looked round. In the far corner\na gay party of four were halfway through dinner. Two officers, an elderly\nlady and a young one, she found rather hard to place, but Julie decided\nthe girl was the fiancée of one who had brought his friend to meet her.\nAt other tables were mostly couples, and across the room from her, with\nan elderly officer, sat a well-made-up woman, very plainly _demimonde_.\nImmediately before her were four men, two of them foreigners, in morning\ndress, talking and eating hare. It was evidently a professional party,\nand one of the four now and again hummed out a little air to the\nrest, and once jotted down some notes on the back of a programme. They\ntook no notice of anyone, but the eyes of the woman with the officer, who\nhardly spoke to her, searched Julie unblushingly.\n\nJulie, gave a little sigh of happiness. \"This is lovely, Peter,\" she\nsaid. \"We'll be ages over dinner. It's such fun to be in nice clothes\njust for dinner sometimes and not to have to worry about the time, and\ngoing on elsewhere. But I do wish my friends could see me, I must say.\nThey'd be horrified. They thought I was going to a stodgy place in West\nKensington. I was must careful to be vague, but that was the idea. Peter,\nhow would you like to live in a suburb and have heaps of children, and\ndine out with city men and their wives once or twice a month for a\ntreat?\"\n\nPeter grimaced. Then he looked thoughtful. \"It wouldn't have been any so\nremarkable for me at one time, Julie,\" he said.\n\nShe shook her head. \"It would, my dear. You're not made for it.\"\n\n\"What am I made for, then?\"\n\nShe regarded him solemnly, and then relaxed into a smile. \"I haven't a\nnotion, but not that. The thing is never to worry. You get what you're\nmade for in the end, I think.\"\n\n\"I wonder,\" said Peter. \"Perhaps, but not always. The world's full of\nsquare pegs in round holes.\"\n\n\"Then they're stodgy pegs, without anything in them. If I was a square\npeg I'd never go into a round hole.\"\n\n\"Suppose there was no other hole to go into,\" demanded Peter.\n\n\"Then I'd fall out, or I wouldn't go into any hole at all. I'd sooner be\nanything in the world than stodgy, Peter. I'd sooner be like that woman\nover there who is staring at me so!\"\n\nPeter glanced to one side, and then back at Julie. He was rather grave.\n\"Would you really?\" he questioned.\n\nThe waiter brought the Chianti and poured out glasses. Julie waited till\nhe had gone, and then lifted hers and looked at Peter across it. \"I\nwould,\" she said. \"I couldn't live without wine and excitement and song.\nI'm made that way. Cheerio, Solomon!\"\n\nThey drank to each other. Then: \"And love?\" queried Peter softly.\n\nJulie did not reply for a minute. She set her wine-glass down and toyed\nwith the stem. Then she looked up at him under her eyelashes with that\nold daring look of hers, and repeated: \"And love, Peter. But real love,\nnot stodgy humdrum liking, Peter. I want the love that's like the hot\nsun, and the wide, tossing blue sea east of Suez, and the nights under\nthe moon where the real world wakes up and doesn't go to sleep, like it\ndoes in the country in the cold, hard North. Do you know,\" she went on,\n\"though I love the cities, and bands, and restaurants, and theatres, and\ntaxis, and nice clothes, I love best of all the places where one has none\nof these things. I once went with a shooting-party to East Africa, Peter,\nand that's what I love. I shall never forget the nights at Kilindini,\nwith the fireflies dancing among the bushes, and the moon glistening on\nthe palms as if they were wet, and the insects shrilling in the grass,\nand the hot, damp air. Or by day, up in the forest, camped under the\ngreat trees, with the strange few flowers and the silence, while the sun\ntrickled through the leaves and made pools of light on the ground. Do you\nknow, I saw the most beautiful thing I've ever seen or, I think, shall\nsee in that forest.\"\n\n\"What was that?\" asked Peter, under her spell, for she was speaking like\na woman in a dream.\n\n\"It was one day when we were marching. We came on a glade among the\ntrees, and at the end of it, a little depression of damp green grass,\nonly the grass was quite hidden beneath a sheet of blue--such blue, I\ncan't describe it--that quivered and moved in the sun. We stood quite\nstill, and then a boy threw a little stone. And the blue all rose in the\nair, silently, like magic. It was a swarm of hundreds and hundreds of\nblue butterflies, Peter. Do you know what I did? I cried--I couldn't help\nit. It was too beautiful to see, Peter.\"\n\nA little silence fell between them. She broke it in another tone.\n\n\"And the natives--I love the natives. I just love the all but naked girls\ncarrying the water up to the village in the evening, tall and straight,\nlike Greek statues; and the men, in a string of beads and a spear. I\nwanted to go naked myself there--at least, I did till one day I tried it,\nand the sun skinned me in no time. But at least one needn't wear\nmuch--cool loose things, and it doesn't matter what one does or says.\"\n\nPeter laughed. \"Who was with you when you tried the experiment?\" he\ndemanded.\n\nJulie threw her head back, and even the professional four glanced up and\nlooked at her. \"Ah, wouldn't you like to know?\" she laughed. \"Well, I\nwon't tease you--two native girls if you want to know, that was all. The\nrest of the party were having a midday sleep. But I never can sleep\nat midday. I don't mind lying in a hammock or a deck-chair, and reading,\nbut I can't sleep. One feels so beastly when one wakes up, doesn't one?\"\n\nPeter nodded, but steered her back. \"Tell me more,\" he said. \"You wake\nsomething up in me; I feel as if I was born to be there.\"\n\n\"Well,\" she said reflectively, \"I don't know that anything can beat the\ngreat range that runs along our border in Natal. It's different, of\ncourse, but it's very wonderful. There's one pass I know--see here, you\ngo up a wide valley with a stream that runs in and out, and that you have\nto cross again and again until it narrows and narrows to a small footpath\nbetween great kranzes. At first there are queer stunted trees and bushes\nabout, with the stream, that's now a tiny thing of clear water, singing\namong them, and there the trees stop, and you climb up and up among the\nboulders, until you think you can do no more, and at the last you come\nout on the top.\"\n\n\"And then?\"\n\n\"You're in wonderland. Before you lies peak on peak, grass-grown and\nrocky, so clear in the rare, still air. There is nothing there but\nmountain and rock and grass, and the blue sky, with perhaps little clouds\nbeing blown across it, and a wind that's cool and vast--you feel it fills\neverything. And you look down the way you've come, and there's all Natal\nspread out at your feet like a tiny picture, lands and woods and rivers,\ntill it's lost in the mist of the distance.\"\n\nShe ceased, staring at her wine-glass. At last the chatter of the place\nbroke in on Peter. \"My dear,\" he exclaimed, \"one can see it. But what do\nyou do there?\"\n\nShe laughed and broke the spell. \"What would one do?\" she demanded. \"Eat\nand drink and sleep, and make love, Peter, if there's anybody to make\nlove to.\"\n\n\"But you couldn't do that all your life,\" he objected.\n\n\"Why not? Why do anything else? I never can see. And when you're\ntired--for you _do_ get tired at last--back to Durban for a\nrazzle-dazzle, or back farther still, to London or Paris for a bit.\nThat's the life for me, Peter!\"\n\nHe smiled: \"Provided somebody is there with the necessary, I suppose?\" he\nsaid.\n\n\"Solomon,\" she mocked, \"Solomon, Solomon! Why do you spoil it all? But\nyou're right, of course, Peter, though I hate to think of that.\"\n\n\"I see how we're like, and how we're unlike, Julie,\" said Peter suddenly,\n\"You like real things, and so do I. You hate to feel stuffy and tied up\nin conventions, and so do I. But you're content with just that, and I'm\nnot.\"\n\n\"Am I?\" she queried, looking at him a little strangely.\n\nPeter did not notice; he was bent on pursuing his argument. \"Yes, you\nare,\" he said. \"When you're in the grip of real vital things--nature\nnaked and unashamed--you have all you want. You don't stop to think of\nto-morrow. You live. But I, I feel that there is something round the\ncorner all the time. I feel as if there must be something bigger than\njust that. I'd love your forest and your range and your natives, I think,\nbut only because one is nearer something else with them than here. I\ndon't know how to put it, but when you think of those things you feel\n_full_, and I still feel _empty_.\"\n\n\"Peter,\" said Julie softly, \"do you remember Caudebec?\"\n\nHe looked up at her then. \"I shall never forget it, dear,\" he said.\n\n\"Then you'll remember our talk in the car?\"\n\nHe nodded. \"When you talked about marriage and human nature and men, and\nso on,\" he said.\n\n\"No, I don't mean that. I did talk of those things, and I gave you a\nlittle rather bitter philosophy that is more true than you think; but I\ndon't mean that. Afterwards, when we spoke about shams and playing. Do\nyou remember, I hinted that a big thing might come along--do you\nremember?\"\n\nHe nodded again, but he did not speak.\n\n\"Well,\" she said, \"it's come--that's all.\"\n\n\"Another bottle of Chianti, sir?\" queried the padrone at his elbow.\n\nPeter started. \"What? Oh, yes, please,\" he said. \"We can manage another\nbottle, Julie? And bring on the dessert now, will you? Julie, have a\ncigarette.\"\n\n\"If we have another bottle you must drink most of it,\" she laughed,\nalmost as if they had not been interrupted, but with a little vivid\ncolour in her cheeks. \"Otherwise, my dear, you'll have to carry me\nupstairs, which won't look any too well. But I want another glass. Oh,\nPeter, do look at that woman now!\"\n\nPeter looked. The elderly officer had dined to repletion and drank well\ntoo. The woman had roused herself; she was plainly urging him to come on\nout; and as Peter glanced over, she made an all but imperceptible sign to\na waiter, who bustled forward with the man's cap and stick. He took them\nstupidly, and the woman helped him up, but not too noticeably. Together\nthey made for the door, which the waiter held wide open. The woman tipped\nhim, and he bowed. The door closed, and the pair disappeared into the\nstreet.\n\n\"A damned plucky sort,\" said Julie; \"I don't care what anyone says.\"\n\n\"I didn't think so once, Julie,\" said Peter, \"but I believe you're right\nnow. It's a topsy-turvy world, little girl, and one never knows where one\nis in it.\"\n\n\"Men often don't,\" said Julie, \"but women make fewer mistakes. Come,\nPeter, let's get back. I want the walk, and I want that cosy little\nroom.\"\n\nHe drained his glass and got up. Suddenly the thought of the physical\nJulie ran through him like fire. \"Rather!\" he said gaily. \"So do I,\nlittle girl.\"\n\nThe waiter pulled back the chairs. The padrone came up all bows and\nsmiles. He hoped the Captain would come again--any time. It was better to\nring up, as they were often very full. A taxi? No? Well, the walk through\nthe streets was enjoyable after dinner, even now, when the lights were so\nfew. Good-evening, madame; he hoped everything had been to her liking.\n\nJulie sauntered across the now half-empty little room, and took Peter's\narm in the street. \"Do you know the way?\" she demanded.\n\n\"We can't miss it,\" he said. \"Up here will lead us to Shaftesbury Avenue\nsomewhere, and then we go down. Sure you want to walk, darling?\"\n\n\"Yes, and see the people, Peter, I love seeing them. Somehow by night\nthey're more natural than they are by day. I hate seeing people going to\nwork in droves, and men rushing about the city with dollars written all\nacross their faces. At night that's mostly finished with. One can see\nugly things, but some rather beautiful ones as well. Let's cross over.\nThere are more people that side.\"\n\nThey passed together down the big street. Even the theatres were darkened\nto some extent, but taxis were about, and kept depositing their loads of\nmen and smiling women. The street-walks held Tommies, often plainly with\na sweet-heart from down east; men who sauntered along and scanned the\nfaces of the women; a newsboy or two; a few loungers waiting to pick up\nodd coppers; and here and there a woman by herself. It was the usual\ncrowd, but they were in the mood to see the unusual in usual things.\n\nIn the Circus they lingered a little. Shrouded as it was, an atmosphere\nof mystery hung over everything. Little groups that talked for a while\nat the corners or made appointments, or met and broke up again, had the\nair of conspirators in some great affair. The rush of cars down Regent\nStreet, and then this way and that, lent colour to the thought, and\nit affected both of them. \"What's brooding over it all, Julie?\" Peter\nhalf-whispered. \"Can't you feel that there is something?\"\n\nShe shrugged her shoulders, and then gave a little shiver. \"Love, or what\nmen take for love,\" she said.\n\nHe clasped the hand that lay along his arm passionately. \"Come along,\" he\nsaid.\n\n\"Oh, this _is_ good, Peter,\" said Julie a few minutes later. She had\nthrown off her wrap, and was standing by the fire while he arranged the\ncigarettes, the biscuits, and a couple of drinks on the little table with\nits shaded light. \"Did you lock the door? Are we quite alone, we two, at\nlast, with all the world shut out?\"\n\nHe came swiftly over to her, and took her in his arms for answer. He\npressed kisses on her hair, her lips, her neck, and she responded to\nthem.\n\n\"Oh, love, love,\" he said, \"let's sit down and forget that there is\nanything but you and I.\"\n\nShe broke from him with a little laugh of excitement. \"We will, Peter,\"\nshe said; \"but I'm going to take off this dress and one or two other\nthings, and let my hair down. Then I'll come back.\"\n\n\"Take them off here,\" he said; \"you needn't go away.\"\n\nShe looked at him and laughed again. \"Help me, then,\" she said, and\nturned her back for him to loosen her dress.\n\nClumsily he obeyed. He helped her off with the shimmering beautiful\nthing, and put it carefully over a chair. With deft fingers she loosened\nher hair, and he ran his fingers through it, and buried his face in the\nthick growth of it. She untied a ribbon at her waist, and threw from\nher one or two of her mysterious woman's things. Then, with a sigh of\nutter abandonment, she threw herself into his arms.\n\nThey sat long over the fire. Outside the dull roar of the sleepless city\ncame faintly up to them, and now and again a coal fell in the grate. At\nlong last Peter pushed her back a little from him. \"Little girl,\" he\nsaid, \"I must ask one thing. Will you forgive me? That night at\nAbbeville, after we left Langton, what was it you wouldn't tell me?\nWhat was it you thought he would have known about you, but not I? Julie,\nI thought, to-night--was it anything to do with East Africa--those\ntropical nights under the moon? Oh, tell me, Julie!\"\n\nThe girl raised her eyes to his. That look of pain and knowledge that he\nhad seen from the beginning was in them again. Her hand clasped the\nlappet of his tunic convulsively, and she seemed to him indeed but a\nlittle girl.\n\n\"Peter! could you not have asked? But no, you couldn't, not you.... But\nyou guess now, don't you? Oh, Peter, I was so young, and I thought--oh,\nI thought: the big thing had come, and since then life's been all one\nbig mockery. I've laughed at it, Peter: it was the only way. And then\nyou came along. I haven't dared to think, but there's something about\nyou--oh, I don't know what! But you don't play tricks, do you, Peter?\nAnd you've given me all, at last, without a question.... Oh, Peter, tell\nme you love me still! It's your love, Peter, that can make me clean and\nsave my soul--if I've any soul to save,\" she added brokenly.\n\nPeter caught her to him. He crushed her so that she caught her breath with\nthe pain of it, and he wound his hand all but savagely in her hair. He\ngot up--and she never guessed he had the strength--and carried her out in\nhis arms, and into the other room.\n\nAnd hours later, staring into the blackness while she slept as softly as\na child by his side, he could not help smiling a little to himself. It\nwas all so different from what he had imagined.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nPeter awoke, and wondered where he was. Then his eye fell on a half-shut,\nunfamiliar trunk across the room, and he heard splashing through the open\ndoor of the bathroom. \"Julie!\" he called.\n\nA gurgle of laughter came from the same direction and the splashing\nceased. Almost the next second Julie appeared in the doorway. She was\nstill half-wet from the water, and her sole dress was a rosebud which she\nhad just tucked into her hair. She stood there, laughing, a perfect\nvision of unblushing natural loveliness, splendidly made from her little\nhead poised lightly on her white shoulders to her slim feet. \"You lazy\ncreature!\" she exclaimed; \"you're awake at last, are you? Get up at\nonce,\" and she ran over to him just as she was, seizing the bed-clothes\nand attempting to strip them off. Peter protested vehemently. \"You're a\nshameless baggage,\" he said, \"and I don't want to get up yet. I want some\ntea and a cigarette in bed. Go away!\"\n\n\"You won't get up, won't you?\" she said. \"All right; I'll get into bed,\nthen,\" and she made as if to do so.\n\n\"Get away!\" he shouted. \"You're streaming wet! You'll soak everything.\"\n\n\"I don't care,\" she retorted, laughing and struggling at the same time,\nand she succeeded in getting a foot between the sheets. Peter slipped out\non the other side, and she ran round to him. \"Come on,\" she said; \"now\nfor your bath. Not another moment. My water's steaming hot, and it's\nquite good enough for you. You can smoke in your bath or after it. Come\non!\"\n\nShe dragged him into the bathroom and into that bath, and then she filled\na sponge with cold water and trickled it on him, until he threatened to\njump out and give her a cold douche. Then, panting with her exertions and\ndry now, she collapsed on the chair and began to fumble with her hair\nand its solitary rose. It was exactly Julie who sat there unashamed in\nher nakedness, Peter thought. She had kept the soul of a child through\neverything, and it could burst through the outer covering of the woman\nwho had tasted of the tree of knowledge of good and evil and laugh in the\nsun.\n\n\"Peter,\" she said, \"wouldn't you love to live in the Fiji--no, not the\nFiji, because I expect that's civilised these days, but on an almost\ndesert island?--though not desert, of course. Why does one call Robinson\nCrusoe sort of islands _desert_? Oh, I know, because it means deserted, I\nsuppose. But I don't want it quite deserted, for I want you, and three\nor four huts of nice savages to cut up wood for the fire and that sort of\nthing. And I should wear a rose--no, a hibiscus--in my hair all day long,\nand nothing else at all. And you should wear--well, I don't know what you\nshould wear, but something picturesque that covered you up a bit, because\nyou're by no means so good-looking as I am, Peter.\" She jumped up and\nstretched out her arms, \"Am I not good-looking, Peter? Why isn't there a\ngood mirror in this horrid old bathroom? It's more necessary in a\nbathroom than anywhere, I think.\"\n\n\"Well, I can see you without it,\" said Peter. \"And I quite agree, Julie,\nyou're divine. You are like Aphrodite, sprung from the foam.\"\n\nShe laughed. \"Well, spring from the foam yourself, old dear, and come and\ndress. I'm getting cold. I'm going to put on the most thrilling set of\nundies this morning that you ever saw. The cami-... \"\n\nPeter put his fingers in his ears. \"Julie,\" he said, \"in one minute I\nshall blush for shame. Go and put on something, if you must, but don't\ntalk about it. You're like a Greek goddess just now, but if you begin to\nquote advertisements you'll be like--well, I don't know what you'll be\nlike, but I won't have it, anyway. Go on; get away with you. I shall\nthrow the sponge at you if you don't.\"\n\nShe departed merrily, singing to herself, and Peter lay a little longer\nin the soft warm water. He dwelt lovingly on the girl in the other room;\nhe told himself he was the happiest man alive; and yet he got out of the\nbath, without apparent rhyme or reason, with a little sigh. But he was\nonly a little quicker than most men in that. Julie had attained and was\nradiant; Peter had attained--and sighed.\n\nShe was entirely respectable by contrast when he rejoined her, shaven and\nhalf-dressed, a little later, but just as delectable, as she stood in\nsoft white things putting up her hair with her bare arms. He went over\nand kissed her. \"You never said good-morning at all, you wretch,\" he\nsaid.\n\nShe flung her arms round his neck and kissed him again many times.\n\"Purposely,\" she said. \"I shall never say good-morning to you while\nyou're horribly unshaven--never. You can't help waking up like it, I\nknow, but it's your duty to get clean and decent as quickly as possible.\nSee?\"\n\n\"I'll try _always_ to remember,\" said Peter, and stressed the word.\n\nShe held him for an appreciable second at that; then loosed him with a\nquick movement. \"Go, now,\" she said, \"and order breakfast to be brought\nup to our sitting-room. It must be a very nice breakfast. There must be\nkippers and an omelette. Go quick; I'll be ready in half a minute.\"\n\n\"I believe that girl is sweeping the room,\" said Peter. \"Am I to appear\nlike this? You must remember that we're not in France.\"\n\n\"Put on a dressing-gown then. You haven't got one here? Then put on my\nkimono; you'll look exceedingly beautiful.... Really, Peter, you do. Our\nisland will have to be Japan, because kimonos suit you. But I shall never\nlive to reach it if you don't order that breakfast.\"\n\nPeter departed, and had a satisfactory interview with the telephone in\nthe presence of the maid. He returned with a cigarette between his lips,\nsmiling, and Julie turned to survey him.\n\n\"Peter, come here. Have you kissed that girl? I believe you have! How\ndare you? Talk about being shameless, with me here in the next room!\"\n\n\"I thought you never minded such things, Julie. You've told me to kiss\ngirls before now. _And_ you said that you'd always allow your husband\ncomplete liberty--now, didn't you?\"\n\nJulie sat down on the bed and heaved a mock sigh. \"What incredible\ncreatures are men!\" she exclaimed. \"Must I mean everything I say,\nSolomon? Is there no difference between this flat and that miserable old\nhotel in Caudebec? And last, but not least, have you promised to forsake\nall other and cleave unto me as long as we both shall live? If you had\npromised it, I'd know you couldn't possibly keep it; but as it is, I have\nhopes.\"\n\nThis was too much for Peter. He dropped into the position that she had\ngrown to love to see him in, and he put his arms round her waist, looking\nup at her laughingly. \"But you will marry me, Julie, won't you?\" he\ndemanded.\n\nBefore his eyes, a lingering trace of that old look crept back into her\nface. She put her hands beneath his chin, and said no word, till he could\nstand it no longer.\n\n\"Julie, Julie, my darling,\" he said, \"you must.\"\n\n\"Must, Peter?\" she queried, a little wistfully he thought.\n\n\"Yes, must; but say you want to, say you will, Julie!\"\n\n\"I want to, Peter,\" she said--\"oh, my dear, you don't know, you can't\nknow, how much. The form is nothing to me, but I want _you_--if I can\nkeep you.\"\n\n\"If you can keep me!\" echoed Peter, and it was as if an ice-cold finger\nhad suddenly been laid on his heart. For one second he saw what might be.\nBut he banished it. \"What!\" he exclaimed. \"Cannot you trust me, Julie?\nDon't you know I love you? Don't you know I want to make you the very\ncentre of my being, Julie?\"\n\n\"I know, dearest,\" she whispered, and he had never heard her speak so\nbefore. \"You want, that is one thing; you can, that is another.\"\n\nPeter stared up at her. He felt like a little child who kneels at the\nfeet of a mother whom it sees as infinitely loving, infinitely wise,\ninfinitely old. And, like a child, he buried his head in her lap. \"Oh,\nJulie,\" he said, \"you must marry me. I want you so that I can't tell you\nhow much. I don't know what you mean. Say,\" he said, looking up again and\nclasping her tightly--\"say you'll marry me, Julie!\"\n\nShe sprang up with a laugh. \"Peter,\" she said, \"you're Mid-Victorian. You\nare actually proposing to me upon your knees. If I could curtsy or faint\nI would, but I can't. Every scrap of me is modern, down to Venns'\ncami-knickers that you wouldn't let me talk about. Let's go and eat\nkippers; I'm dying for them. Come on, old Solomon.\"\n\nHe got up more slowly, half-smiling, for who could resist Julie in that\nmood? But he made one more effort. He caught her hand. \"But just say\n'Yes' Julie,\" he said--\"just 'Yes.'\"\n\nShe snatched her hand away. \"Maybe I will tell you on Monday morning,\"\nshe said, and ran out of the room.\n\nAs he finished dressing, he heard her singing in the next room, and then\ntalking to the maid. When he entered the sitting-room the girl came out,\nand he saw that there were tears in her eyes. He went in and looked\nsharply at Julie; there was a suspicion of moisture in hers also. \"Oh,\nPeter,\" she said, and took him by the arm as the door closed, \"why didn't\nyou tell me about Jack? I'm going out immediately after breakfast to buy\nher the best silver photo-frame I can find, see? And now come and eat\nyour kippers. They're half-cold, I expect. I thought you were never\ncoming.\"\n\nSo began a dream-like day to Peter. Julie was the centre of it. He\nfollowed her into shops, and paid for her purchases and carried her\nparcels: he climbed with her on to buses, which she said she preferred to\ntaxis in the day-time; he listened to her talk, and he did his best to\nfind out what she wanted and get just that for her. They lunched, at her\nrequest, at an old-fashioned, sober restaurant in Regent Street, that\ngave one the impression of eating luncheon in a Georgian dining-room, in\nsome private house of great stolidity and decorum. When Julie had said\nthat she wanted such a place Peter had been tickled to think how she\nwould behave in it. But she speedily enlightened him. She drew off her\ngloves with an air. She did not laugh once. She did not chat to the\nwaiter. She did not hurry in, nor demand the wine-list, nor call him\nSolomon. She did not commit one single Colonial solecism at table, as\nPeter had hated himself for half thinking that she might. Yet she never\nhad looked prettier, he thought, and even there he caught glances which\nsuggested that others might think so too. And if she talked less than\nusual, so did he, for his mind was very busy. In the old days it was\nalmost just such a wife as Julie now that he would have wanted. But did\nhe want the old days? Could he go back to them? Could he don the clerical\nfrock coat and with it the clerical system and outlook of St. John's? He\nknew, as he sat there, that not only he could not, but that he would not.\nWhat, then? It was almost as if Julie suggested that the alternative was\nmadcap days, such as that little scene in the bathroom suggested. He\nlooked at her, and thought of it again, and smiled at the incongruity of\nit, there. But even as he smiled the cold whisper of dread insinuated\nitself again, small and slight as it was. Would such days fill his life?\nCould they offer that which should seize on his heart, and hold it?\n\nHe roused himself with an effort of will, poured himself another glass of\nwine, and drank it down. The generous, full-bodied stuff warmed him, and\nhe glanced at his wrist-watch. \"I say,\" he said, \"we shall be late,\nJulie, and I don't want to miss one scrap of this show. Have you\nfinished? A little more wine?\"\n\nJulie was watching him, he thought, as he spoke, and she, too, seemed to\nhim to make a little effort. \"I will, Peter,\" she said, not at all as she\nhad spoken there before--\"a full glass too. One wants to be in a good\nmood for the Coliseum. Well, dear old thing, cheerio!\"\n\nOutside he demanded a taxi. \"I must have it, Julie,\" he said. \"I want to\ndrive up, and have the old buffer in gold braid open the door for me.\nHave a cigarette?\"\n\nShe took one, and laughed as they settled into the car. \"I know the\nfeeling, my dear,\" she said. \"And you want to stroll languidly up the red\ncarpet, and pass by the pictures of chorus-girls as if you were so\naccustomed to the real thing that really the pictures were rather borin',\ndon't you know. And you want to make eyes at the programme-girl, and give\na half-crown tip when they open the box, and take off your British warm\nin full view of the audience, and....\"\n\n\"Kiss you,\" said Peter uproariously, suiting the action to the word.\n\"Good Lord, Julie, you're a marvel! No more of those old restaurants for\nme. We dine at our hotel to-night, in the big public room near the band,\nand we drink champagne.\"\n\n\"And you put the cork in my stocking?\" she queried, stretching out her\nfoot.\n\nHe pushed his hand up her skirt and down to the warm place beneath the\ngay garter that she indicated, and he kissed her passionately again. \"It\ndoesn't matter now,\" he said. \"I have more of you than that. Why, that's\nnothing to me now, Julie. Oh, how I love you!\"\n\nShe pushed him off, and snatched her foot away also, laughing gaily. \"I'm\ngetting cheap, am I?\" she said. \"We'll see. You're going to have a damned\nrotten time in the theatre, my dear. Not another kiss, and I shall be as\nprim as a Quaker.\"\n\nThe car stopped. \"You couldn't,\" he laughed, helping her out. \"And what\nis more, I shan't let you be. I've got you, old darling, and I propose to\nkeep you, what's more.\" He took her arm resolutely. \"Come along. We're\ngoing to be confoundedly late.\"\n\nTheirs was a snug little box, one of the new ones, placed as in a\nFrench theatre. The great place was nearly dark as they entered, except\nfor the blaze of light that shone through the curtain. The odour of\ncigarette-smoke and scent greeted them, with the rustle of dresses and\nthe subdued sound of gay talk. The band struck up. Then, after the\nrolling overture, the curtain ran swiftly up, and a smart young person\ntripped on the stage in the limelight and made great play of swinging\npetticoats.\n\nJulie had no remembrance of her promised severity at any rate. She hummed\nairs, and sang choruses, and laughed, and was thrilled, exactly as she\nshould have been, while the music and the panorama went on and wrapped\nthem round with glamour, as it was meant to do. She cheered the patriotic\npictures and Peter with her, till he felt no end of a fellow to be in\nuniform. The people in front of them glanced round amusedly now and\nagain, and as like as not Julie would be discovered sitting there\ndemurely, her child's face all innocence, and a big chocolate held\nbetween her fingers at her mouth. Peter would lean back in his corner\nconvulsed at her, and without moving a muscle of her face she would put\nher leg tip on his seat and push him. One scene they watched well back\nin their dark box, his arm round her waist. It was a little pathetic\nlove-play and well done, and in the gloom he played with the curls at\nher ears and neck with his lips, and held her hand.\n\nWhen it was over they went out with the crowd. The January day was done,\nbut it was bewildering for all that to come out into real life. There was\nno romance for the moment on the stained street, and in the passing\ntraffic. The gold braid of the hall commissionaire looked tawdry, and\nthe pictures of ballet-girls but vulgar. It is the common experience, but\neach time one feels it there is a new surprise. Julie had her own remedy:\n\n\"The liveliest tea-room you can find, Peter,\" she demanded.\n\n\"It will be hard to beat our own,\" said Peter.\n\n\"Well, away there, then; let's get back to a band again, anyhow.\"\n\nThe great palm-lounge was full of people, and for a few minutes it did\nnot seem as if they would find seats; but then Julie espied a half-empty\ntable, and they made for it. It stood away back in a corner, with two\nwicker armchairs before it, and, behind, a stationary lounge against the\nwall overhung by a huge palm. The lounge was occupied. \"We'll get in\nthere presently,\" whispered Peter, and they took the chairs, thankful in\nthe crowded place to get seated at all.\n\n\"Oh, it was topping, Peter,\" said Julie. \"I love a great place like that.\nI almost wish we had had dress-circle seats or stalls out amongst the\npeople. But I don't know; that box was delicious. Did you see how that\nold fossil in front kept looking round? I made eyes at him once,\ndeliberately--you know, like this,\" and she looked sideways at Peter\nwith subtle invitation just hinted in her eyes. \"I thought he would have\napoplexy--I did, really.\"\n\n\"It's a good thing I didn't notice, Julie. Even now I should hate to see\nyou look like that, say, at Donovan. You do it too well. Oh, here's the\ntea. Praise the Lord! I'm dying for a cup. You can have all the cakes;\nI've smoked too much.\"\n\n\"Wouldn't you prefer a whisky?\"\n\n\"No, not now--afterwards. What's that they're playing?\"\n\nThey listened, Julie seemingly intent, and Peter, who soon gave up the\nattempt to recognise the piece, glanced sideways at the couple on the\nlounge. They did not notice him. He took them both in and caught--he\ncould not help it--a few words.\n\nShe was thirty-five, he guessed, slightly made-up, but handsome and full\nfigured, a woman of whom any man might have been proud. He was an\nofficer, in Major's uniform, and he was smoking a cigarette impatiently\nand staring down the lounge. She, on the other hand, had her eyes fixed\non him as if to read every expression on his face, which was heavy and\nsullen and mutinous.\n\n\"Is that final, then, George?\" she said.\n\n\"I tell you I can't help it; I promised I'd dine with Carstairs\nto-night.\"\n\nA look swept across her face. Peter could not altogether read it. It was\nnot merely anger, or pique, or disappointment; it certainly was not\nmerely grief. There was all that in it, but there was more. And she\nsaid--he only just caught the sentence of any of their words, but there\nwas the world of bitter meaning in it:\n\n\"Quite alone, I suppose? And there will be no necessity for me to sit\nup?\"\n\n\"Peter,\" said Julie suddenly, \"the tea's cold. Take me upstairs, will\nyou? we can have better sent up.\"\n\nHe turned to her in surprise, and then saw that she too had heard and\nseen.\n\n\"Right, dear,\" he said, \"It is beastly stuff. I think, after all, I'd\nprefer a spot, and I believe you would too.\"\n\nHe rose carefully, not looking towards the lounge, like a man; and Julie\ngot up too, glancing at that other couple with such an ordinary merely\ninterested look that Peter smiled to himself to see it. They threaded\ntheir way in necessary silence through the tables and chairs to the\ndoors, and said hardly a word in the lift. But in their sitting-room,\ncosy as ever, Julie turned to him in a passion of emotion such as he had\nscarcely dreamed could exist even in her.\n\n\"Oh, you darling,\" she said, \"pick me up, and sit me in that chair on\nyour knee. Love me, Peter, love me as you've never loved me before. Hold\nme tight, tight, Peter hurt me, kiss me, love me, say you love me...\" and\nshe choked her own utterance, and buried her face on his shoulder,\nstraining her body to his, twining her slim foot and leg round his ankle.\nIn a moment she was up again, however, and glanced at the clock. \"Peter,\nwe must dress early and dine early, mustn't we? The thing begins at\nseven-forty-five. Now I know what we'll do. First, give me a drink,\na long one, Solomon, and take one yourself. Thanks. That'll do. Here's\nthe best.... Oh, that's good, Peter. Can't you feel it running through\nyou and electrifying you? Now, come\"--she seized him by the arm--\"come\non! I'll tell you what you've got to do.\"\n\nSmiling, though a little astonished at this outburst, Peter allowed\nhimself to be pulled into the bedroom. She sat down on the bed and pushed\nout a foot. \"Take it off, you darling, while I take down my hair,\" she\nsaid.\n\nHe knelt and undid the laces and took off the brown shoes one by one,\nfeeling her little foot through the silk as he did so. Then he looked up.\nShe had pulled out a comb or two, and her hair was hanging down. With\nswift fingers she finished her work, and was waiting for him. He caught\nher in his arms, and she buried her face again. \"Oh, Peter, love me, love\nme! Undress me, will you? I want you to. Play with me, own me, Peter.\nSee, I am yours, yours, Peter, all yours. Am I worth having, Peter? Do\nyou want more than me?\" And she flung herself back on the bed in her\ndisorder, the little ribbons heaving at her breast, her eyes afire, her\ncheeks aflame.\n\n\"Well,\" said Peter, an hour or two later, \"we've got to get this dinner\nthrough as quickly as we've ever eaten anything. You'll have to digest\nlike one of your South African ostriches. I say,\" he said to the waitress\nin a confidential tone and with a smile, \"do you think you can get us\nstuff in ten minutes all told? We're late as it is, and we'll miss half\nthe theatre else.\"\n\n\"It depends what you order,\" said the girl, rather sharply. Then, after a\nglance at them both: \"See, if you'll have what I say, I'll get you\nthrough quick. I know what's on easiest. Do you mind?\"\n\n\"The very thing,\" said Peter; \"and send the wine-man over on your way,\nwill you? How will that do?\" he added to Julie.\n\n\"I'll risk everything to-night, Peter, except your smiling at the\nwaitress,\" she said. \"But I must have that champagne. There's something\nabout champagne that inspires confidence. When a man gives you the gold\nbottle you know that he is really serious, or as serious as he can be,\nwhich isn't saying much for most men. And not half a bottle; I've had\nhalf-bottles heaps of times at tête-à-tête dinners. It always means\nindecision, which is a beastly thing in anyone, and especially in a man.\nIt's insulting, for one thing.... Oh, Peter, do look at that girl over\nthere. Do you suppose she has anything on underneath? I suppose I\ncouldn't ask her, but you might, you know, if you put on that smile of\nyours. Do walk over, beg her pardon, and say very nicely: 'Excuse me, but\nI'm a chaplain, and it's my business to know these things. I see you've\nno stays on, but have you a bathing costume?'\"\n\n\"Julie, do be quiet; someone will hear you. You must remember we're in\nEngland, and that you're talking English.\"\n\n\"I don't care a damn if they do, Peter! Oh, here's the champagne, at any\nrate. Oh, and some soup. Well, that's something.\"\n\n\"I've got the fish coming,\" said the girl, \"if you can be ready at once.\"\n\nJulie seized her spoon. \"I suppose I mustn't drink it?\" she said. \"I\ndon't see why I shouldn't, as a matter of fact, but it might reflect on\nyou, Peter, and you're looking so immaculate to-night. By the way, you've\nnever had that manicure. Do send a note for the girl. I'd hide in the\nbathroom. I'd love to hear you. Peter, if I only thought you would do it,\nI'd like it better than the play. What is the play, by the way? _Zigzag?_\nOh, _Zigzag_\" (She mimicked in a French accent.) \"Well, it will be all\ntoo sadly true if I leave you to that bottle of fizz all by yourself.\nGive me another glass, please.\"\n\n\"What about you?\" demanded Peter. \"If you're like this now, Heaven knows\nwhat you'll be by the time you've had half of this.\"\n\n\"Peter, you're an ignoramus. Girls like me never take too much. We began\nearly for one thing, and we're used to it. For another, the more a girl\ntalks, the soberer she is. She talks because she's thinking, and because\nshe doesn't want the man to talk. Now, if you talked to-night, I don't\nknow what you might not say. You'd probably be enormously sentimental,\nand I hate sentimental people. I do, really. Sentiment is wishy-washy,\nisn't it? I always associate it with comedians on the stage. Look over\nthere. Do you see that girl in the big droopy hat and the thin hands?\nAnd the boy--one must say 'boy,' I suppose? He's a little fat and\nslightly bald, and he's got three pips up, and has had them for a long\ntime. Well, look at them. He's searching her eyes, he is, Peter, really.\nThat's how it's done: you just watch. And he doesn't know if he's eating\npea-soup or oyster-sauce. And she's hoping her hat is drooping just\nright, and that he'll notice her ring is on the wrong finger, and how\nnice one would look in the right place. To do her justice, she isn't\nthinking much about dinner, either; but that's sinful waste, Peter, in\nthe first place, and bad for one's tummy in the second. However, they're\nsentimental, they are, and there's a fortune in it. If they could only\nbring themselves to do just that for fifteen minutes at the Alhambra\nevery night, they'd be the most popular turn in London.\"\n\n\"That's all very well,\" said he; \"but if you eat so fast and talk at the\nsame time, you'll pay for it very much as you think they will. Have you\nfinished?\"\n\n\"No, I haven't. I want cheese-straws, and I shall sit here till I get\nthem or till the whole of London zigzags round me.\"\n\n\"I say,\" said Peter to their waitress, \"if you possibly can, fetch us\ncheese-straws now. Not too many, but quickly. Can you? The lady won't go\nwithout them, and something must be done.\"\n\n\"Wouldn't the management wait if you telephoned, Peter dear?\" inquired\nJulie sarcastically. \"Just say who you are, and they sure will. If the\nchorus only knew, they'd go on strike against appearing before you came,\nor tear their tights or something dreadful like that, so that they\ncouldn't come on. Yes, now I am ready. One wee last little drop of the\nbubbly--I see it there--and I'll sacrifice coffee for your sake. Give me\na cigarette, though. Thanks. And now my wrap.\"\n\nShe rose, the cigarette in her fingers, smiling at him. Peter hastily\nfollowed, walking on air. He was beginning to realise how often he failed\nto understand Julie, and to see how completely she controlled her\napparently more frivolous moods; but he loved her in them. He little\nknew, as he followed her out, the tumult of thoughts that raced through\nthat little head with its wealth of brown hair. He little guessed how\nbravely she was already counting the fleeting minutes, how resolutely\nkeeping grip of herself in the flood which threatened to sweep her--how\ngladly!--away.\n\nA good revue must be a pageant of music, colour, scenery, song, dance,\nhumour, and the impossible. There must be good songs in it, but one does\nnot go for the songs, any more than one goes to see the working out of a\nplot. Strung-up men, forty-eight hours out of the trenches, with every\nnerve on edge, must come away with a smile of satisfaction on their\nfaces, to have a last drink at home and sleep like babies. Women who have\nbeen on nervous tension for months must be able to go there, and allow\ntheir tired senses to drink in the feast of it all, so that they too may\ngo home and sleep. And in a sense their evening meant all this to Peter\nand Julie; but only in a sense.\n\nThey both of them bathed in the performance. The possible and impossible\nscenes came and went in a bewildering variety, till one had the feeling\nthat one was asleep and dreaming the incomprehensible jumble of a dream,\nand, as in a nice dream, one knew it was absurd, but did not care. The\nmagnificent, brilliant staging dazzled till one lay back in one's chair\nand refused to name the colours to oneself or admire their blending any\nmore. The chorus-girls trooped on and off till they seemed countless, and\none abandoned any wish to pick the prettiest and follow her through. And\nthe gay palace of luxury, with its hundreds of splendidly dressed women,\nits men in uniform, its height and width and gold and painting, and its\ngreat arching roof, where, high above, the stirring of human hearts still\nwent on, took to itself an atmosphere and became sentient with humanity.\n\nJulie and Peter were both emotional and imaginative, and they were\nspellbound till the notes of the National Anthem roused them. Then, with\nthe commonplaces of departure, they left the place. \"It's so near,\" said\nJulie in the crowd outside; \"let's walk again.\"\n\n\"The other pavement, then,\" said Peter, and they crossed. It was cold,\nand Julie clung to him, and they walked swiftly.\n\nAt the entrance Peter suggested an hour under the palms, but Julie\npleaded against it. \"Why, dear?\" she said. \"It's so cosy upstairs, and we\nhave all we want. Besides, the lounge would be an anti-climax; let's go\nup.\"\n\nThey went up, and Julie dropped into her chair while Peter knelt to poke\nthe fire. Then he lit a cigarette, and she refused one for once, and he\nstood there looking into the flame.\n\nJulie drew a deep sigh. \"Wasn't it gorgeous, Peter?\" she said. \"I can't\nhelp it, but I always feel I want it to go on for ever and ever. Did you\never see _Kismet?_ That was worse even than this. I wanted to get up and\nwalk into the play. These modern things are too clever; you know they're\nunreal, and yet they seem to be real. You know you're dreaming, but you\nhate to wake up. I could let all that music and dancing and colour go on\nround me till I floated away and away, for ever.\"\n\nPeter said nothing. He continued to stare into the fire.\n\n\"What do you feel?\" demanded Julie.\n\nPeter drew hard on his cigarette, and then he blew out the smoke. \"I\ndon't know,\" he said. \"Yes, I do,\" he added quickly; \"I feel I want to\nget up and preach a sermon.\"\n\n\"Good Lord, Peter! what a dreadful sensation that must be! Don't begin\nnow, will you? I'm beginning to wish we'd gone into the lounge after all;\nyou surely couldn't have preached there.\"\n\nPeter did not smile. He went on as if she had not spoken, \"Or write a\ngreat novel, or, better still, a great play,\" he said.\n\n\"What would be the subject, then, you Solomon, or the title, anyway?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Peter dreamily. \"_All Men are Grass_, _The Way of\nall Flesh_--no, neither of those is good, and besides, one at least is\ntaken. I know,\" he added suddenly, \"I would call it _Exchange_, that's\nall. My word, Julie, I believe I could do it.\" He straightened himself,\nand walked across the room and back again, once or twice. \"I believe I\ncould: I feel it tingling in me; but it's all formless, if you\nunderstand; I've no plot. It's just what I feel as I sit there in a\ntheatre, as we did just now.\"\n\nJulie leaned forward and took the cigarette she had just refused. She lit\nit herself with a half-burnt match, and Peter stood and watched her, but\nhardly saw what she was doing. She was as conscious of his preoccupation\nas if it were something physical about him.\n\n\"Explain, my dear,\" she said, leaning back and staring into the fire.\n\n\"I don't know that I can,\" he replied, and she felt as if he did not\nspeak to her. \"It's the bigness of it all, the beauty, the triumphant\nsuccess. It's drawn that great house full, lured them in, the thousands\nof them, and it does so night after night. Tired people go there to be\nrefreshed, and sad people to be made gay, and people sick of life to\nlaugh and forget it. It's the world's big anodyne. It offers a great\nexchange. And all for a few shillings, Julie, and for a few hours. The\nsensation lingers, but one has to go again and again. It tricks one into\nthinking, almost, that it's the real thing, that one can dance like\nmayflies in the sun. Only, Julie, there comes an hour when down sinks the\nsun, and what of the mayflies then?\"\n\nJulie shifted her head ever so little. \"Go on,\" she said, looking up\nintently at him.\n\nHe did not notice her, but her words roused him. He began to pace up and\ndown again, and her eyes followed him. \"Why,\" he said excitedly, \"don't\nyou see that it's a fraudulent exchange? It's a fraudulent exchange that\nit offers, and it itself is an exchange as fraudulent as that which our\nmodern world is making. No, not our modern world only. We talk so big of\nour modernity, when it's all less than the dust--this year's leaves, no\nbetter than last year's, and fallen to-morrow. Rome offered the same\nexchange, and even a better one, I think--the blood and lust and conflict\nof the amphitheatre. But they're both exchanges, offered instead of the\ngreat thing, the only great thing.\"\n\n\"Which is, Peter?\"\n\n\"God, of course--Almighty God; Jesus, if you will, but I'm not in a mood\nfor the tenderness of that. It's God Himself Who offers tired and sad\npeople, and people sick of life, no anodyne, no mere rest, but stir and\nfight and the thrill of things nobly done--nobly tried, Julie, even if\nnobly failed. Can't you see it? And you and I to-night have been looking\nat what the world offers--in exchange.\"\n\nHe ceased and dropped into a chair the other side of the fire. A silence\nfell on them. Then Julie gave a little shiver. \"Peter, dear,\" she said\ntenderly, \"I'm a little tired and cold.\"\n\nHe was up at once and bending over her. \"My darling, what a beast I am!\nI clean forgot you for a minute. What will you have? What about a hot\ntoddy? Shall I make one?\" he demanded, smiling. \"Donovan taught me how,\nand I'm really rather good at it.\"\n\nShe smiled back at him, and put her hand up to smooth his hair. \"That\nwould be another exchange, Peter,\" she said, \"and I don't want it. Only\none thing can warm me to-night and give me rest.\"\n\nHe read what she meant in her eyes, and knelt beside the chair to put his\narms around her. She leaned her face on his shoulder, and returned the\nkisses that he showered upon her. \"Poor mayflies,\" she said to herself,\n\"how they love to dance in the sun!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nEver after that next day, the Saturday, will remain in Peter's memory as\na time by itself, of special significance, but a significance, except for\none incident, very hard to place. It began, indeed, very quietly, and\nvery happily. They breakfasted again in their own room, and Julie was\nin one of her subdued moods, if one ever could say she was subdued.\nAfterwards Peter lit a cigarette and strolled over to the window. \"It's a\nbeastly day,\" he said, \"cloudy, cold, windy, and going to rain, I think.\nWhat shall we do? Snow up in the hotel all the time?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Julie emphatically, \"something quite different. You shall show\nme some of the real London sights, Westminster Abbey to begin with. Then\nwe'll drive along the Embankment and you shall tell me what everything\nis, and we'll go and see anything else you suggest. I don't suppose\nyou realise, Peter, that I'm all but absolutely ignorant of London.\"\n\nHe turned and smiled on her. \"And you really _want_ to see these things?\"\nhe said.\n\n\"Yes, of course I do. You don't think I suggested it for your benefit?\nBut if it will make you any happier, I'll flatter you a bit. I want to\nsee those things now, with you, partly because I'm never likely to find\nanyone who can show me them better. Now then. Aren't you pleased?\"\n\nAt that, then, they started. Westminster came first, and they wandered\nall over it and saw as much as the conditions of war had left for the\npublic to see. It amused Peter to show Julie the things that seemed to\nhim to have a particular interest--the Chapter House, St. Faith's Chapel,\nthe tomb of the Confessor, and so on. She made odd comments. In St.\nFaith's she said: \"I don't say many prayers, Peter, but here I couldn't\nsay one.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" he demanded.\n\n\"Because it's too private,\" she said quaintly. \"I should think I was\npretending to be a saint if I went past everybody else and the vergers\nand things into a little place like this all by myself. Everyone would\nknow that I was doing something which most people don't do. See? Why\ndon't people pray all over the church, as they do in France in a\ncathedral, Peter?\"\n\nHe shrugged his shoulders. \"Come on,\" he said; \"your notions are all\ntopsy-turvy, Julie. Come and look at the monuments.\"\n\nThey wandered down the transept, and observed the majesty of England in\nstone, robed in togas, declaiming to the Almighty, and obviously\nconvinced that He would be intensely interested; or perhaps dying in the\narms of a semi-dressed female, with funeral urns or ships or cannon\nin the background; or, at least in one case, crouching hopelessly, before\nthe dart of a triumphant death. Julie was certainly impressed, \"They are\nall like ancient Romans, Peter,\" she said, \"and much more striking than\nthose Cardinals and Bishops and Kings, kneeling at prayer, in Rouen\nCathedral. But, still, they were _not_ ancient Romans, were they? They\nwere all Christians, I suppose. Is there a Christian monument anywhere\nabout?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Peter, \"but we'll walk round and see.\"\n\nThey made a lengthy pilgrimage, and finally Peter arrested her. \"Here's\none,\" he said.\n\nA Georgian Bishop in bas-relief looked down on them, fat and comfortable.\nIn front of him was a monstrous cup, and a plate piled with biggish\nsquares of stone. Julie did not realise what it was. \"What's he doing\nwith all that lump-sugar?\" she demanded.\n\nPeter was really a bit horrified. \"You're an appalling pagan,\" he said.\n\"Come away!\" And they came.\n\nThey roamed along the Embankment. Julie was as curious as a child, and\nwanted to know all about everything, from Boadicea, Cleopatra's Needle,\nand the Temple Church, to Dewar's Whisky Works and the Hotel Cecil.\nThereabouts, Julie asked the name of the squat tower and old red-brick\nbuildings opposite, and when she heard it was Lambeth Palace instantly\ndemanded to visit it. Peter was doubtful if they could, but they crossed\nto see, and they were shown a good deal by the courtesy of the\nauthorities. The Archbishop was away, to Peter's great relief, for as\nlikely as not Julie would have insisted on an introduction, but they\nsaw the chapel and the dining-hall amongst other things. The long line\nof portraits fascinated her, but not as it fascinated Peter. The\nsignificance of the change in the costumes of the portraits struck\nhim for the first time--first the cope and mitre and cross, then the\nskull-cap and the tippet, then the balloon-sleeves and the wig, then the\ncoat and breeches and white cravat, then the academic robes, and then a\npurple cassock. Its interest to Julie was other, however. \"Peter,\" she\nwhispered, \"perhaps you'll be there one day.\"\n\nHe looked at her sharply, but she was not mocking him, and, marvelling at\nher simplicity and honest innocence, he relaxed into a smile. \"Not very\nlikely, my dear,\" he said. \"In other days a pleasant underground cell in\nthe Lollards' Tower would have been more likely.\"\n\nThen, of course, Julie must see the famous tower, and see a little of it\nthey did. She wanted to know what Lollardy was; their guide attempted an\nexplanation. Julie was soon bored. \"I can't see why people make such a\nbother about such things,\" she said. \"A man's religion is his own\nbusiness, surely, and he must settle it for himself. Don't you think so,\nPeter?\"\n\n\"Is it his own business only?\" he asked gravely.\n\n\"Whose else should it be?\" she demanded.\n\n\"God's,\" said Peter simply.\n\nJulie stared at him and sighed. \"You're very odd, Peter,\" she said, \"but\nyou do say things that strike one as being true. Go on.\"\n\n\"Oh, there's no more to say,\" said Peter, \"except, perhaps, this: if\nanyone or any Church honestly believed that God had committed His share\nin the business to them--well, then he might justifiably feel that he or\nit had a good deal to do with the settling of another man's religion.\nHence this tower, Julie, and as a matter of fact, my dear, hence me, past\nand present. But come on.\"\n\nShe took his arm with a little shiver which he was beginning to notice\nfrom time to time in her. \"It's a horrible idea, Peter,\" she said. \"Yes,\nlet's go.\"\n\nSo their taxi took them to Buckingham Palace and thereabouts, and by\nchance they saw the King and Queen. Their Majesties drove by smartly in\nmorning dress with a couple of policemen ahead, and a few women waved\nhandkerchiefs, and Peter came to the salute, and Julie cheered. The Queen\nturned towards where she was standing, and bowed, and Peter noticed,\namazed, that the eyes of the Colonial girl were wet, and that she did not\nattempt to hide it.\n\nHe had to question her. \"I shouldn't have thought you'd have felt about\nroyalty like that, Julie,\" he said.\n\n\"Well, I do,\" she said, \"and I don't care what you say. Only I wish\nthey'd go about with the Life Guards. The King's a King to me. I suppose\nhe is only a man, but I don't want to think of him so. He stands for the\nEmpire and for the Flag, and he stands for England too. I'd obey that man\nalmost in anything, right or wrong, but I don't know that I'd obey anyone\nelse.\"\n\n\"Then you're a survival of the Dark Ages,\" he said.\n\n\"Don't be a beast!\" said Julie.\n\n\"All right, you're not, and indeed I don't know if I am right. Very\nlikely you're the very embodiment of the spirit of the Present Day.\nHaving lost every authority, you crave for one.\"\n\nJulie considered this. \"There may be something in that,\" she said. \"But I\ndon't like you when you're clever. It was the King, and that's enough for\nme. And I don't want to see anything more. I'm hungry; take me to lunch.\"\n\nPeter laughed. \"That's it,\" he said--\"like the follower of Prince Charlie\nwho shook hands once with his Prince and then vowed he would never shake\nhands with anyone again. So you've seen the King, and you won't see\nanything else, only your impression won't last twelve hours,\nfortunately.\"\n\n\"I don't suppose the other man kept his vow,\" said Julie. \"For one thing,\nno man ever does. Come on!\"\n\nAnd so they drifted down the hours until the evening theatre and\n_Carminetta_. They said and did nothing in particular, but they just\nenjoyed themselves. In point of fact, they were emotionally tired, and,\nbesides, they wanted to forget how the time sped by. The quiet day was,\nin its own way too, a preparation for the evening feast, and they were\nboth in the mood to enjoy the piece intensely when it came. The\nmagnificence of the new theatre in which it was staged all helped. Its\nwide, easy stairways, its many conveniences, its stupendous auditorium,\nits packed house, ushered it well in. Even the audience seemed different\nfrom that of last night.\n\nJulie settled herself with a sigh of satisfaction to listen and watch.\nAnd they both grew silent as the opera proceeded. At first Julie could\nnot contain her delight. \"Oh, she's perfect, Peter,\" she exclaimed--\"a\nlittle bit of life! Look how she shakes her hair back and how impudent\nshe is--just like one of those French girls you know too much about! And\nshe's boiling passion too. And a regular devil. I love her, Peter!\"\n\n\"She's very like you, Julie,\" said Peter.\n\nJulie flashed a look at him. \"Rubbish!\" she said, but was silent.\n\nThey watched while Carminetta set herself to win her bet and steal the\nheart of the hero from the Governor's daughter. They watched her force\nthe palace ballroom, and forgot the obvious foolishness of a great deal\nof it in the sense of the drama that was being worked out. The whole\nhouse grew still. The English girl, with her beauty, her civilisation,\nher rank and place, made her appeal to her fiancé; and the Spanish\nbastard dancer, with her daring, her passion, her naked humanity, so\ncoarse and so intensely human, made her appeal also. And they watched\nwhile the young conventionally-bred officer hesitated; they watched till\nCarminetta won.\n\nJulie, leaning forward, held her breath and gazed at the beautiful\nfashionable room on the stage, gazed through the open French windows to\nthe moonlit garden and the night beyond, and gazed, though at last she\ncould hardly see, at the Spanish girl. That great renunciation held them\nboth entranced. So bitter-sweet, so humanly divine, the passionate,\nheart-broken, heroic song of farewell, swelled and thrilled about them.\nAnd with the last notes the child of the gutter reached up and up till\nshe made the supreme self-sacrifice, and stepped out of the gay room into\nthe dark night for the sake of the man she loved too much to love.\n\nThen Julie bowed her head into her hands, and in the silence and darkness\nof their box burst into tears. And so, for the first and last time, Peter\nheard her really weep.\n\nHe said foolish man-things to comfort her. She looked up at last,\nsmiling, her brown eyes challengingly brave through her tears, \"Peter,\nforgive me,\" she said. \"I shouldn't be such a damned fool! You never\nthought I could be like that, did you? But it was so superbly done,\nI couldn't help it. It's all over now--all over, Peter,\" she added\nsoberly. \"I want to sit in the lounge to-night for a little, if you don't\nmind. Could you possibly get a taxi? I don't want to walk.\"\n\nIt was difficult to find one. Finally Peter and another officer\nmade a bolt simultaneously and each got hold of a door of a car that\nwas just coming up. Both claimed it, and the chauffeur looked round\ngood-humouredly at the disputants. \"Settle it which-hever way you like,\ngents,\" he said. \"Hi don't care, but settle it soon.\"\n\n\"Let's toss,\" said Peter.\n\n\"Right-o,\" said the other man, and produced a coin.\n\n\"Tails,\" whispered Julie behind Peter, and \"Tails!\" he called.\n\nThe coin spun while the little crowd looked on in amusement, and tails it\nwas. \"Damn!\" said the other, and turned away.\n\n\"A bad loser, Peter,\" said Julie; \"and he's just been seeing\n_Carminetta_, too! But am I not lucky! I almost always win.\"\n\nIn the palm lounge Julie was very cheerful. \"Coffee, Peter,\" she said,\n\"and liqueurs.\"\n\n\"No drinks after nine-thirty,\" said the waiter. \"Sorry, sir.\"\n\nJulie laughed. \"I nearly swore, Peter,\" she said, \"but I remembered in\ntime. If one can't get what one wants, one has to go without singing. But\nI'll have a cigarette, not to say two, before we've finished. And I'm in\nno hurry; I want to sit on here and pretend it's not Saturday night. And\nI want to go very slowly to bed, and I don't want to sleep.\"\n\n\"Is that the effect of the theatre?\" asked Peter. \"And why so different\nfrom last night?\"\n\nJulie evaded. \"Don't you feel really different?\" she demanded.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said.\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"Well, I don't want to preach any sermon to-night. It's been preached.\"\n\nJulie drew hard on her cigarette, and blew out a cloud of smoke. \"It has,\nPeter,\" she said merrily, \"and thank the Lord I am therefore spared\nanother.\"\n\n\"You're very gay about it now, Julie, but you weren't at first. That play\nmade me feel rather miserable too. No, I think it made me feel small.\nCarminetta was great, wasn't she? I don't know that there is anything\ngreater than that sort of sacrifice. And it's far beyond me,\" said Peter.\n\nJulie leaned back and hummed a bar or two that Peter recognised from the\nlast great song of the dancer. \"Well, my dear, I was sad, wasn't I?\" she\nsaid. \"But it's over. There's no use in sadness, is there?\"\n\nPeter did not reply, and started as Julie suddenly laughed. \"Oh, good\nLord, Peter!\" she exclaimed, \"to what _are_ you bringing me? Do you know\nthat I'm about to quote Scripture? And I damn-well shall if we sit on\nhere! Let's walk up Regent Street; I can't sit still. Come on.\" She\njumped up.\n\n\"Just now,\" he said, \"you wanted to sit still for ages, and now you want\nto walk. What is the matter with you, Julie? And what was the text?\"\n\n\"That would be telling!\" she laughed. \"But can't I do anything I like,\nPeter?\" she demanded. \"Can't I go and get drunk if I like, Peter, or sit\nstill, or dance down Regent Street, or send you off to bed and pick up a\nnice boy? It would be easy enough here. Can't I, Peter?\"\n\nHer mood bewildered him, and, without in the least understanding why,\nhe resented her levity. But he tried to hide it. \"Of course you can,\"\nhe said lightly; \"but you don't really want to do those things, do\nyou--especially the last, Julie?\"\n\nShe stood there looking at him, and then, in a moment, the excitement\ndied out of her voice and eyes. She dropped into a chair again. \"No,\nPeter,\" she said, \"I don't. That's the marvel of it. I expect I shall,\none of these days, do most of those things, and the last as well, but I\ndon't think I'll ever _want_ to do them again. And that's what you've\ndone to me, my dear.\"\n\nPeter was very moved. He slipped his hand out and took hers under cover\nof her dress. \"My darling,\" he whispered, \"I owe you everything. You\nhave given me all, and I won't hold back all from you. Do you remember,\nJulie, that once I said I thought I loved you more than God? Well, I know\nnow--oh yes, I believe I do know now. But I choose you, Julie.\"\n\nHer eyes shone up at him very brightly, and he could not read them\naltogether. But her lips whispered, and he thought he understood.\n\n\"Oh, Peter, my dearest,\" she said, \"thank God I have at least heard you\nsay that. I wouldn't have missed you saying those words for anything,\nPeter.\"\n\nSo might the serving-girl in Pilate's courtyard have been glad, had she\nbeen in love.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nPart at least of Julie's programme was fulfilled to the letter, for they\nlay long in bed talking--desultory, reminiscent talk, which sent Peter's\nmind back over the months and the last few days, even after Julie was\nasleep in the bed next his. Like a pageant, he passed, in review scene\nafter scene, turning it over, and wondering at significances that he had\nnot before, imagined. He recalled their first meeting, that instantaneous\nattraction, and he asked himself what had caused it. Her spontaneity,\nfreshness, and utter lack of conventionality, he supposed, but that did\nnot seem to explain all. He wondered at the change that had even then\ncome about in himself that he should have been so entranced by her, He\nwent over his early hopes and fears; he thought again of conversations\nwith Langton; and he realised afresh how true it was that the old\nauthorities had dwindled away; that no allegiance had been left; that his\nhad been a citadel without a master. And then Julie moved through his\ndays again--Julie at Caudebec, daring, iconoclastic, free; Julie at\nAbbeville, mysterious, passionate, dominant; Julie at Dieppe--ah, Julie\nat Dieppe! He marvelled that he had held out so long after Dieppe, and\nthen Louise rose before him. He understood Louise less than Julie,\nperhaps, and with all the threads in his hand he failed to see the\npattern. He turned over restlessly. It was easy to see how they had come\nto be in London; it would have been more remarkable if they had not so\ncome together; but now, what now? He could not sum up Julie amid the\nshifting scenes of the last few days. She had been so loving, and yet,\nin a way, their love had reached no climax. It had, indeed, reached what\nhe would once have thought a complete and ultimate climax, but plainly\nJulie did not think so. And nor did he--now. The things of the spirit\nwere, after all, so much greater than the things of the flesh. The Julie\nof Friday night had been his, but of this night...? He rolled over again.\nWhat had she meant at the play? He told himself her tears were simple\nemotion, her laughter simple reaction, but he knew it was not true....\n\nAnd for himself? Well, Julie was Julie. He loved her intensely. She could\nstir him to anything almost. He loved to be with her, to see her, to hear\nher, but he did not feel satisfied. He knew that. He told himself that he\nwas an introspective fool; that nothing ever would seem to satisfy\nhim; that the centre of his life _was_ and would be Julie; that she was\nreal, tinglingly, intensely real; but he knew that that was not the last\nword. And then and there he resolved that the last word should be spoken\non the morrow, that had, indeed, already come by the clock: she should\npromise to marry him.\n\nHe slept, perhaps, for an hour or two, but he awoke with the dawn. The\ngrey light was stealing in at the windows, and Julie slept beside him in\nthe bed between. He tried to sleep again, but could not, and, on a\nsudden, had an idea. He got quietly out of bed.\n\n\"What is it, Peter?\" said Julie sleepily.\n\nHe went round and leaned over her. \"I can't sleep any more, dearest,\" he\nsaid. \"I think I'll dress and go for a bit of a walk. Do you mind? I'll\nbe in to breakfast.\"\n\n\"No,\" she said. \"Go if you want to. You are a restless old thing!\"\n\nHe dressed silently, and kept the bathroom door closed as he bathed and\nshaved. She was asleep again as he stole out, one arm flung loosely on\nthe counterpane, her hair untidy on the pillow. He kissed a lock of it,\nand let himself quietly out of their suite.\n\nIt was still very early, and the Circus looked empty and strange. He\nwalked down Piccadilly, and wondered at the clean, soft touch of the\ndawning day, and recalled another memorable Sunday morning walk. He\npassed very familiar places, and was conscious of feeling an exile, an\ninevitable one, but none the less an exile, for all that. And so he came\ninto St. James's Park, still as aimlessly as he had left the hotel.\n\nBefore him, clear as a pointing finger in the morning sky, was the\ncampanile of that stranger among the great cathedrals of England. It\nattracted him for the first time, and he made all but unconsciously\ntowards it, Peter was not even in the spiritual street that leads to the\ngates of the Catholic Church, and it was no incipient Romanism that moved\nhim. He was completely ignorant of the greater part of that faith, and,\nstill more, had no idea of the gulf that separates it from all other\nreligions. He would have supposed, if he had stopped to think, that, as\nwith other sects, one considered its tenets, made up one's mind as to\ntheir truth or falsehood one by one, and if one believed a sufficient\nmajority of them joined the Church. It was only, then, the mood of the\nmoment, and when, he found himself really moving towards that finger-post\nhe excused himself by thinking that as he was, by his own act, exiled,\nfrom, more familiar temples, he would visit this that would have about it\na suggestion of France.\n\nHe wondered if it would be open as he turned into Ashley Gardens. He\nglanced at his watch; it was only just after seven. Perhaps an early Mass\nmight be beginning. He went to the central doors and found them fast;\nthen he saw little groups of people and individuals like himself making\nfor the door in the great tower, and these he followed within.\n\nHe stood amazed for a few minutes. The vast soaring space, so austere in\nits bare brick, gripped his imagination. The white and red and gold of\nthe painted Christ that hung so high and monstrous before the entrance to\nthe marbles of the sanctuary almost troubled him. It dominated everything\nso completely that he felt he could not escape it. He sought one of the\nmany chairs and knelt down.\n\nA little bell tinkled, Peter glanced sideways towards the sound, and\nsaw that a Mass was in progress in a side-chapel of gleaming mosaics,\nand that a soldier in uniform served. Hardly had he taken the details\nin, when another bell claimed his attention. It came from across the\nwide nave, and he perceived that another chapel had its Mass, and a\nconsiderable congregation. And then, his attention aroused, he began to\nspy about and to take in the thing.\n\nThe whole vast cathedral was, as it were, alive. Seven or eight Masses\nwere in progress. One would scarcely finish before another priest,\npreceded by soldier in uniform or server in cassock and cotta, would\nappear from beyond the great pulpit and make his way to yet another\naltar. The small handbells rang out again and again and again, and still\npriest after priest was there to take his place. Peter began cautiously\nto move about. He became amazed at the size of the congregation. They had\nbeen lost in that great place, but every chapel had its people, and there\nwere, in reality, hundreds scattered about in the nave alone.\n\nHe knelt for awhile and watched the giving of Communion in the guarded\nchapel to the north of the high altar. Its gold and emblazoned gates were\nnot for him, but he could at least kneel and watch those who passed in\nand out. They were of all sorts and classes, of all ranks and ages; men,\nwomen, children, old and young, rich and poor, soldier and civilian,\nstreamed in and out again. Peter sighed and left them. He found an altar\nat which Mass was about to begin, and he knelt at the back on a mosaic\npavement in which fishes and strange beasts were set in a marble stream,\nand watched. And it was not one Mass that he watched, but two or three,\nand it was there that a vision grew on his inner understanding, as he\nknelt and could not pray.\n\nIt is hard and deceptive to write of those subconscious imaginings that\nconvict the souls of most men some time or another. In that condition\nthings are largely what we fashion them to be, and one may be thought to\nbe asserting their ultimate truth in speaking of their influence. But\nthere is no escaping from the fact that Peter Graham of a lost allegiance\nbegan that Sunday morning to be aware of another claimant. And this is\nwhat dawned upon him, and how.\n\nA French memory gave him a starting-point. Here, at these Low Masses, it\nwas more abundantly plain than ever that these priests did not conceive\nthemselves to be serving a congregation, but an altar. One after the\nother they moved through a ritual, and spoke low sentences that hardly\nreached him, with their eyes holden by that which they did. At first he\nwas only conscious of this, but then he perceived the essential change\nthat came over each in his turn. The posturing and speaking was but\nintroductory to the moment when they raised the Host and knelt before it.\nIt was as if they were but functionaries ushering in a King, and then\neffacing themselves before Him.\n\nHere, then, the Old Testament of Peter's past became to him a\nschoolmaster. He heard himself repeating again the comfortable words of\nthe Prayer-Book service: \"Come unto Me....\" \"God so loved....\" \"If any\nman sin....\" Louise's hot declaration forced itself upon him: \"It is He\nWho is there.\" And it was then that the eyes of his mind were enlightened\nand he saw a vision--not, indeed, of the truth of the Roman Mass (if it\nbe true), and not of the place of the Sacrament in the Divine scheme of\nthings, but the conception of a love so great that it shook him as if\nit were a storm, and bowed him before it as if he were a reed.\n\nThe silent, waiting Jesus.... All these centuries, in every land.... How\nHe had been mocked, forgotten, spurned, derided, denied, cast out; and\nstill He waited. Prostitutes of the streets, pardoned in a word, advanced\ntowards Him, and He knew that so shortly again, within the secret place\nof their hearts, He would be crucified; but still He waited. Careless\nmen, doubtless passion-mastered, came up to Him, and He knew the sort\nthat came; but still He waited. He, Peter, who had not known He was here\nat all, and who had gone wandering off in search of any mistress, spent\nmany days, turned in by chance, and found Him here. What did He wait for?\nNothing; there was nothing that anyone could give, nothing but a load of\nshame, the offering of a body spent by passionate days, the kiss of\ntraitor-lips; but still He waited. He did more than wait. He offered\nHimself to it all. He had bound Himself by an oath to be kissed if Judas\nplanned to kiss Him, and He came through the trees to that bridal with\nthe dawn of every day. He had foreseen the chalice, foreseen that it\nwould be filled at every moon and every sun by the bitter gall of\ningratitude and wantonness and hate, but He had pledged Himself--\"Even\nso, Father\"--and He was here to drink it. Small wonder, then, that the\npaving on which Peter Graham knelt seemed to swim before his eyes until\nit was in truth a moving ocean of love that streamed from the altar and\nenclosed of every kind, and even him.\n\nThe movement of chairs and the gathering of a bigger congregation than\nusual near a chapel that Peter perceived to be for the dead aroused him.\nHe got up to go. He walked quickly up Victoria Street, and marvelled over\nthe scene he had left. In sight of Big Ben he glanced up--twenty to nine!\nHe had been, then, an hour and a half in the cathedral. He recalled\nhaving read that a Mass took half an hour, and he began to reckon how\nmany persons had heard Mass even while he had been there. Not less than\nfive hundred at every half-hour, and most probably more. Fifteen hundred\nto two thousand souls, of every sort and kind, then, had been drawn in to\nthat all but silent ceremony, to that showing of Jesus crucified. A\nmultitude--and what compassion!\n\nThus he walked home, thinking of many things, but the vision he had seen\nwas uppermost and would not be displaced. It was still in his eyes as he\nentered their bedroom and found Julie looking at a magazine as she lay in\nbed, smoking a cigarette.\n\n\"Lor', Peter, are you back? I suppose I ought to be up, but I was so\nsleepy. What's the time? Why, what's the matter? Where have you been?\"\n\nPeter did not go over to her at once as she had expected. It was not that\nhe felt he could not, or anything like that, but simply that he was only\nthinking of her in a secondary way. He walked to the dressing-table and\nlifted the flowers she had worn the night before and put there in a\nlittle glass.\n\n\"Where have you been, old Solomon?\" demanded Julie again.\n\n\"Seeing wonders, Julie,\" said Peter, looking dreamily at the blossoms.\n\n\"No? Really? What? Do tell me. If it was anything I might have seen, you\nwere a beast not to come back for me, d'you hear?\"\n\nPeter turned and stared at her, but she knew as he looked that he hardly\nsaw her. Her tone changed, and she made a little movement with her hand,\n\"Tell me, Peter,\" she said again.\n\n\"I've seen,\" said Peter slowly, \"a bigger thing than I thought the world\ncould hold, I've seen something so wonderful, Julie, that it hurt--oh,\nmore than I can say. I've seen Love, Julie.\"\n\nShe could not help it. It was a foolish thing to say just then, she knew,\nbut it came out. \"Oh, Peter,\" she said, \"did you have to leave me to see\nthat?\"\n\n\"Leave you?\" he questioned, and for a moment so lost in his thought was\nhe that he did not understand what she meant. Then it dawned on him, and\nhe smiled. He did not see as he stood there, the clumsy Peter, how the\ntwo were related. So he smiled, and he came over to her, and took her\nhand, and sat on the bed, his eyes still full of light. \"Oh, you've\nnothing to do with it,\" he said. \"It's far bigger than you or I, Julie.\nOur love is like a candle held up to the sun beside it. Our love wants\nsomething, doesn't it? It burns, it--it intoxicates, Julie. But this love\nwaits, _waits_, do you understand? It asks nothing; it gives, it suffices\nall. Year after year it just waits, Julie, waits for anyone, waits for\neveryone. And you can spurn it, spit on it, crucify it, and it is still\nthere when you--need, Julie.\" And Peter leaned forward, and buried his\nface in her little hand.\n\nJulie heard him through, and it was well that before the end he did not\nsee her eyes. Then she moved her other hand which held the half-burnt\ncigarette and dropped the smoking end (so that it made a little hiss)\ninto her teacup on the glass-topped table, and brought her hand back, and\ncaressed his hair as he lay bent forward there. \"Dear old Peter,\" she\nsaid tenderly, \"how he thinks things! And when you saw this--this love,\nPeter, how did you feel?\"\n\nHe did not answer for a minute, and when he did he did not raise his\nhead. \"Oh, I don't know, Julie,\" he said. \"It went through and through\nme. It was like a big sea, and it flooded me away. It filled me. I seemed\nto drink it in at every pore. I felt satisfied just to be there.\"\n\n\"And then you came back to Julie, eh, Peter?\" she questioned.\n\n\"Why, of course,\" he said, sitting up with a smile. \"Why not?\" He gave a\nlittle laugh. \"Why, Julie,\" he said, \"I never thought of that before. I\nsuppose I ought to have been--oh, I don't know, but our days together\ndidn't seem to make any difference. That Love was too big. It seemed\nto me to be too big to be--well, jealous, I suppose.\"\n\nShe nodded. \"That would be just it, Peter. That's how it would seem\nto you. You see, I know. It's strange, my dear, but I don't feel\neither--jealous.\"\n\nHe frowned. \"What do you mean?\" he said. \"Don't you understand? It was\nGod's Love that I saw.\"\n\nShe hesitated a second, and then her face relaxed into a smile. \"You're\nas blind as a bat, my dear, but I suppose all men are, and so you can't\nhelp it. Now go and ring for breakfast and smoke a cigarette in the\nsitting-room while I dress.\" And Peter, because he hated to be called a\nbat and did not feel in the least like one, went.\n\nHe rang the bell, and the maid answered it. She did not wait for him to\ngive his order, but advanced towards him, her eyes sparkling. \"Oh, sir,\"\nshe said, \"is madame up? I don't know how to thank her, and you too. I've\nwanted a frame for Jack's picture, but I couldn't get a real good one,\nI couldn't. When I sees this parcel I couldn't think _what_ it was. I\nforgot even as how I'd give the lady my name. Oh, she's the real good\none, she is. You'll forgive me, sir, but I know a real lady when I see\none. They haven't got no airs, and they know what a girl feels like,\nright away. I put Jack in it, sir, on me table, and if there's anything\nI can do for you or your lady, now or ever, I'll do it, sir.\"\n\nPeter smiled at the little outburst, but his heart warmed within him. How\njust like Julie it was! \"Well,\" he said, \"it's the lady you've really to\nthank. Knock, if you like; I expect she'll let you in. And then order\nbreakfast, will you? Bacon and eggs and some fish. Thanks.\" And he turned\naway.\n\nShe made for the door, but stopped, \"I near forgot, sir,\" she said. \"A\ngentleman left this for you last night, and they give it to me at the\noffice--this morning. There was no answer, he said. He went by this\nmorning's train.\" She handed Peter an unstamped envelope bearing the\nhotel's name, and left the room as he opened it. He did not recognise\nthe handwriting, but he tore it open and glanced at once at the\nsignature, and got a very considerable surprise, not to say a shock.\nIt was signed \"Jack Donovan.\"\n\n\"MY DEAR GRAHAM, [the letter ran],\n\n\"Forgive me for writing, but I must tell you that I've seen you twice\nwith Julie (and each time neither of you saw anyone else but\nyourselves!). It seems mean to see you and not say so, but for the Lord's\nsake don't think it'll go further, or that I reproach you. I've been\nthere myself, old bird, and in any case I don't worry about other\npeople's shows. But I want to tell you a bit of news--Tommy Raynard and I\nhave fixed it up. I know you'll congratulate me. She's topping, and just\nthe girl for me--no end wiser than I, and as jolly as anyone, really. I\ndon't know how you and Julie are coming out of it, and I won't guess, for\nit's a dreadful war; but maybe you'll be able to sympathise with me at\nhaving to leave _my_ girl in France! However, I'm off back to-morrow, a\nday before you. If you hadn't run off to Paris, you'd have known. My\nleave order was from Havre.\n\n\"Well, cheerio. See you before long. And just one word, my boy, from a\nfellow who has seen a bit more than you (if you'll forgive me): remember,\n_Julie'll know best_.\n\n\"Yours, ever,\n\"JACK DONOVAN.\"\n\nPeter frowned over his letter, and then smiled, and then frowned again.\nHe was still at it when he heard Julie's footstep outside, and he thrust\nthe envelope quickly into his pocket, thinking rapidly. He did not in the\nleast understand what the other meant, especially by the last sentence,\nand he wanted to consider it before showing Julie. Also, he wondered\nif it was meant to be shown to Julie at all. He thought not; probably\nDonovan was absolutely as good as his word, and would not even mention\nanything to Tommy. But he thought no more, for Julie was on him.\n\n\"Peter, it's started to rain! I knew it would. Why does it always rain on\nSundays in London? Probably the heavens themselves weep at the sight of\nso gloomy a city. However, I don't care a damn! I've made up my mind what\nwe're going to do. We shall sit in front of the fire all the morning,\nand you shall read to me. Will you?\"\n\n\"Anything you like, my darling,\" he said; \"and we couldn't spend a better\nmorning. But bacon and eggs first, eh? No, fish first, I mean. But pour\nout a cup of tea at once, for Heaven's sake. _I_ haven't had a drop this\nmorning.\"\n\n\"Poor old thing! No wonder you're a bit off colour. No early tea after\nthat champagne last night! But, oh, Peter, wasn't _Carminetta_ a dream?\"\n\nBreakfast over, Peter sat in a chair and bent over her. \"What do you want\nme to read, Julie darling?\" he demanded.\n\nShe considered. \"_Not_ a magazine, _not La Vie Parisienne_, though we\nmight perhaps look at the pictures part of the time. I know! Stop! I'll\nget it,\" She ran out and returned with a little leather-covered book.\n\"Read it right through, Peter,\" she said. \"I've read it heaps of times,\nbut I want to hear it again to-day. Do you mind?\"\n\n\"Omar Khayyám!\" exclaimed Peter. \"Good idea! He's a blasphemous old\npagan, but the verse is glorious and it fits in at times. Do you want me\nto start at once?\"\n\n\"Give me a cigarette! no, put the box there. Stir up the fire. Come and\nsit on the floor with your back to me. That's right. Now fire away.\"\n\nShe leaned back and he began. He read for the rhythm; she listened for\nthe meaning. He read to the end; she hardly heard more than a stanza:\n\n\"Oh, threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise!\nOne thing at least is certain--_this_ Life flies;\nOne thing is certain, and the rest is lies--\nThe flower that once has blown for ever dies.\"\n\nThey lunched in the hotel, and at the table Peter put the first necessary\nquestions that they both dreaded. \"I'm going to tell them to make out my\nbill, Julie,\" he said. \"I've to be at Victoria at seven-thirty a.m.\nto-morrow, you know. You've still got some leave, haven't you, dear; what\nare you going to do? How long will you stay on here?\"\n\n\"Not after you've gone, Peter,\" she said. \"Let them make it out for me\ntill after breakfast to-morrow.\"\n\n\"But what are we going to do?\" he demanded.\n\n\"Oh, don't ask. It spoils to-day to think of to-morrow. Go to my friends,\nperhaps--yes, I think that. It's only for a few days now.\"\n\n\"Oh, Julie, I wish I could stay.\"\n\n\"So do I, but you can't, so don't worry. What about this afternoon?\"\n\n\"If it's stopped raining, let's go for a walk, shall we?\"\n\nThey settled on that, and it was Julie who took him again to St. James's\nPark. As they walked: \"Where did you go to church this morning, Peter?\"\nshe asked.\n\nHe pointed to the campanile. \"Over there,\" he said.\n\n\"Then let's go together to-night,\" she said.\n\n\"Do you mean it, Julie?\"\n\n\"Of course I do. I'm curious. Besides, it's Sunday, and I want to go to\nchurch.\"\n\n\"But you'll miss dinner,\" objected Peter. \"It begins at six-thirty.\"\n\n\"Well, let's get some food out--Victoria Station, for instance. Won't\nthat do? We can have some supper sent up afterwards in the hotel.\"\n\nPeter agreed, but they did not go to the station. In a little cafe\noutside Julie saw a South African private eating eggs and bacon, and\nnothing would do but that they must do the same. So they went in. They\nate off thick plates, and Julie dropped the china pepper-pot on her eggs\nand generally behaved as if she were at a school-treat. But it was a\nnovelty, and it kept their thoughts off the fact that it was the last\nnight. And finally they went to church.\n\nThe service did not impress Peter, and every time he looked at Julie's\nface he wanted to laugh; but the atmosphere of the place did, though he\ncould not catch the impression of the morning. For the sermon, a\nstoutish, foreign-looking ecclesiastic mounted the pulpit, and they both\nprepared to be bored. However, he gave out his text, and Peter sat bolt\nupright at once. It would have delighted the ears of his Wesleyan\ncorporal of the Forestry; and more than that it was the text he had\nquoted in the ears of the dying Jenks. He prepared keenly to listen. As\nfor Julie, she was regarding the altar with a far-away look in her eyes,\nand she scarcely moved the whole time.\n\nOutside, as soon as they were out of the crowd, Peter began at once.\n\n\"Julie,\" he said, \"whatever did you think of that sermon?\"\n\n\"What did you?\" she said. \"Tell me first.\"\n\n\"I don't believe you listened at all, but I can't help talking of it. It\nwas amazing. He began by speaking about Adam and Eve and original sin and\nthe Garden of Eden as if he'd been there. There might never have been a\nHigher Critic in existence. Then he said what sin did, and that sin was\nonly truly sin if it did do that. _That_ was to hide the face of God, to\nput Him and a human being absolutely out of communication, so to speak.\nAnd then he came to Christ, to the Cross. Did you hear him, Julie? Christ\ncomes in between--He got in between God and man. All the anger that\ndarted out of God against sin hit Him; all the blows that man struck back\nagainst God hit Him. Do you see that, Julie? That was wonderfully put,\nbut the end was more wonderful. Both, ultimately, cannot kill the Heart\nof Jesus. There's no sin there to merit or to feel the anger, and we can\nhurt, but we can't destroy His love.\"\n\nPeter stopped, \"That's what I saw a little this morning,\" he said after a\nminute.\n\n\"Well?\" said Julie.\n\n\"Oh, it's all so plain! If there was a way to that Heart, one would be\nsafe. I mean, a way that is not an emotional idea, not a subjective\nexperience, but something practical. Some way that a Tommy could travel,\nas easily as anyone, and get to a real thing. And he said there was a\nway, and just sketched it, the Sacraments--more than ours, of course,\ntheir seven, all of them more or less, I suppose. He meant that the\nSacraments were not signs of salvation, but salvation itself. Julie, I\nnever saw the idea before. It's colossal. It's a thing to which one might\ndedicate one's life. It's a thing to live and die gladly for. It fills\none. Don't you think so, Julie?\" He spoke exultantly.\n\n\"Peter, to be honest,\" said Julie, \"I think you're talking fanatical\nrubbish.\"\n\n\"Do you really, Julie? You can't, _surely_ you can't.\"\n\n\"But I do, Peter,\" she said sadly; \"it makes no appeal to me. I can only\nsee one great thing in life, and it's not that. 'The rest is lies,' But,\noh! surely that great thing might not be false too. But why do you see\none thing, and I another, my dear?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Peter, \"unless--well, perhaps it's a kind of gift,\nJulie, 'If thou knewest the gift of God...' Not that I know, only I can\njust see a great wonderful vision, and it fills my sight.\"\n\n\"I, too,\" she said; \"but it's not your vision.\"\n\n\"What is it, then?\" said he, carried away by his own ideas and hardly\nthinking of her.\n\nHer voice brought him back. \"Oh, Peter, don't you know even yet?\"\n\nHe took her arm very tenderly at that. \"My darling,\" he said, \"the two\naren't incompatible. Julie, don't be sad. I love you; you know I love\nyou. I wish we'd never gone to the place if you think I don't, but I\nhaven't changed towards you a bit, Julie. I love you far, far more than\nanyone else. I won't give you up, even to God!\"\n\nIt was dark where they were. Julie lifted her face to him just there. He\nthought he had never heard her speak as she spoke now, there, in a London\nstreet, under the night sky. \"Peter, my darling,\" she said, \"my brave\nboy. How I love you, Peter! I know _you_ won't give me up, Peter, and I\nadore you for it. Peter, hell will be heaven with the memory of that!\"\nThere, then, he sealed her with his kiss.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nJulie stirred in his arms, but the movement did not wake him any more\nthan the knock of the door had done. \"All right,\" she called. \"Thank\nyou,\" and, leaning over, she switched on the light. It was 5.30, and\nnecessary. In its radiance she bent over him, and none of her friends had\never seen her look as she did then. She kissed him, and he opened his\neyes.\n\n\"Half-past five, Peter,\" she said, as gaily as she could. \"You've got to\nget a move on, my dear. Two hours to dress and pack and breakfast--no, I\nsuppose you can do that on the train. But you've got to get there. Oh,\nLord, how it brings the war home, doesn't it? Jump up!\"\n\nPeter sighed. \"Blast the war!\" he said lazily. \"I shan't move. Kiss me\nagain, you darling, and let your hair fall over my face.\"\n\nShe did so, and its glossy curtain hid them. Beneath the veil she\nwhispered; \"Come, darling, for my sake. The longer you stay here now,\nthe harder it will be.\"\n\nHe threw his arms round her, and then jumped out of bed yawning.\n\n\"That's it,\" she said. \"Now go and shave and bath while I pack for you.\nHurry up; then we'll get more time.\"\n\nWhile he splashed about she sought for his things, and packed for him as\nshe never packed for herself. As she gathered them she thought of the\nnight before, when, overwhelmed in a tempest of love, it had all been\nleft for the morning. She filled the suit-case, but she could not fasten\nit.\n\n\"Come and help, Peter,\" she called.\n\nHe came out. She was kneeling on it in her loose kimono, her hair all\nabout her, her nightdress open at the throat. He drank her beauty in, and\nthen mastered himself for a minute and shut the case. \"That all?\" she\nqueried.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said. \"You get back into bed, my darling, or you'll catch cold.\nI'll be ready in a second, and then we can have a few minutes together.\"\n\nAt the glass he marshalled his arguments, and then he came over to her.\nHe dropped by the bedside and wound his arms about her. \"Julie,\" he\nwhispered, \"my darling, say you'll marry me--please, _please_!\"\n\nShe made no reply. He kissed her, unresisting, again and again.\n\n\"Julie,\" he said, \"you know how I love you. You do know it. You know\nI'm not begging you to marry me because I've got something out of\nyou, perhaps when you were carried away, and now I feel I must make\nreparation. My darling, it isn't that. I love you so much that I can't\nlive without you. I'll give up everything for you. I want to start a new\nlife with you. I can't go back to the old, anyhow; I don't want to: it's\na sham to me now, and I hate shams--you know I do. But you're not a sham;\nour love isn't a sham. I'd die for you, Julie, my own Julie; I'd die for\nthe least little bit of this hair of yours, I think! But I want to live\nfor you. I want to put you right in the centre of everything, and live\nfor you, Julie. Say 'Yes,' my love, my own. You must say 'Yes,' Why don't\nyou, Julie?\"\n\nAnd still she made no reply.\n\nA kind of despair seized him. \"Oh, Julie,\" he cried, \"what can I say or\nwhat can I do? You're cruel, Julie; you're killing me! You _must_ say\n'Yes' before I go. We'll meet in Havre, I know; but that will be so\ndifferent. I must have my answer now. Oh, my darling, please, please,\nspeak! You love me, Julie, don't you?\"\n\n\"Peter,\" said Julie slowly, \"I love you so much that I hardly dare speak,\nlest my love should carry me away. But listen, my dear, listen. Peter,\nI've watched you these days; I've watched you in France. I've watched you\nfrom the moment when I called you over to me because I was interested\nand felt my fate, I suppose. I've watched you struggling along, Peter,\nand I understand why you've struggled. You're built for great things, my\ndear--how great I can't see and I can't even understand. No, Peter, I\ncan't even understand--that's part of the tragedy of it. Peter, I love\nyou so that my love for you _is_ my centre, it's my all in all, it's my\nhope of salvation, Peter. Do you hear, my darling?--my love, it's my one\nhope! If I can't keep that pure and clean, Peter, I ruin both of us. I\nlove you so, Peter, that I won't marry you!\"\n\nHe gave a little cry, but swiftly she put a hand over his mouth. She\nsmiled at him as she did so, a daring little smile. \"Be quiet, you\nSolomon, you,\" she said; \"I haven't finished. There! Now listen again,\nPeter: you can't help it, but you can't love me as I love you. I see it.\nI--I hate it, I think; but I know it, and there's an end. You, my dear,\nyou _would put me_ in the centre, but you can't. I can't put _you_ out of\n_my_ centre, Peter. You _would_ give up God for me, Peter, but you can't,\nor if you did, you'd lose us both. But I, Peter--oh, my darling, I have\nno god but you. And that's why I'll worship you, Peter, and sacrifice to\nyou, Peter, sacrifice to your only ultimate happiness, Peter, and\nsacrifice my all.\"\n\nHe tried to speak, but he could not. The past days lay before him in a\nclear light at last. Her love shone on them, and shone too plainly for\nmistake. He tried to deny, but he couldn't; contradict, but his heart\ncried the truth, and his eyes could not hide it. But he could and did\nvent his passion. \"Damn God! Curse Him!\" he cried. \"I hate Him! Why\nshould He master me? I want you, Julie; I will have you; I will worship\n_you_, Julie!\"\n\nShe let him speak; and, being Julie, his words only brought a more tender\nlight into her face. \"Peter,\" she said, \"one minute. Do you remember\nwhere you first kissed me, my darling?--the first real kiss, I mean,\" and\nher eyes sparkled with fun even then. \"You know--ah, I see you do! You\nwill never forget that, will you? Perhaps you thought I didn't notice,\nbut I did. Neither you nor I chose it; it was Fate; perhaps it was your\nGod, Peter. But, anyway, look at me now as you looked then. What do you\nsee?\"\n\nHe stared at her, and he saw--how clearly he saw! Her sweet back-bent\nhead, her shining eyes, the lamp-light falling on her hair out of the\nnight. He even heard the sea as it beat on the stones of the quay--or\nthought he did--and felt the whip of the wind. And behind her,\ndominating, arms outspread, the harbour crucifix. And she saw that he\nsaw, and she whispered: \"_Do_ you hate Him, Peter?\" And he sank his head\ninto her hands and sobbed great dry sobs.\n\n\"Ah, don't, don't,\" he heard her say--\"don't Peter! It's not so bad as\nthat. Your life is going to be full, my beloved, with a great and burning\nlove; and you were right this morning, Peter, more right than you knew.\nWhen that is there you will have place even for me--yes, even for me, the\nlove of what you will call your sin. And I, my dear, dear boy, I have\nsomething even now which no devil, Peter, and no god can take away.\"\n\nHe looked up. \"Then there's a chance, Julie. You won't say 'Yes,' but\ndon't say 'No.' Let us see. I shall take no vows, Julie. I haven't an\nidea what I shall do, and maybe it won't be quite as you think, and there\nwill be a little room for you one day. Oh, say you'll wait a while,\nJulie, just to see!\"\n\nIt was the supreme moment. She saw no crucifix to sustain her, but she\ndid see the bastard Spanish dancing-girl. And she did not hesitate. \"No,\nPeter,\" she said, \"I would not take that, and you never could give it. I\ndid not mean such place as that. It never can be, Peter; you are not\nmade for me.\"\n\nAnd thus did Julie, who knew no God, but Julie of the brave, clean,\nsteadfast heart, give Peter to Him.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe maid came in answer to her ring. \"Will you light a fire, please?\"\nsaid Julie. \"I suppose Captain Graham has gone?\"\n\n\"Yes, mam, he's gone, and he felt it terrible, I could see. But don't you\nfear, mam, he'll be kept, I know he will. You're that good, he'll come\nback to you, never fear. But it's 'ard on those they leave, ain't it,\nmam?--their wives an' all.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Julie, and she never spoke more bravely. \"But it's got to be,\nhasn't it? Would you pull the blind up? Ah, thanks; why, it's sunny! I'm\nso glad. It will be good for the crossing.\"\n\n\"It will be that, 'm. We gets the sun first up here. Shall I bring up the\ntea, madame?\"\n\n\"I'll ring,\" said Julie, \"when I want it. It won't be for a few minutes\nyet.\"\n\nThe girl went out, and the door shut behind her. Julie lay on still for a\nlittle, and then she got up. She walked to the window and looked out, and\nshe threw her arms wide with a gesture, and shut her eyes, and let the\nsun fall on her. Then she walked to her little trunk, and rummaged in it.\nFrom somewhere far down she drew out a leather case, and with it in her\nhand she went over and sat by the fire. She held it without moving for a\nminute, and then she slowly opened it. One by one she drew out a few\nworthless things--a withered bunch of primroses, a couple of little\nscribbled notes, a paper cap from a cracker, a menu card, a handkerchief\nof her own that she had lent to him, and that he (just like Peter) had\ngiven back. She held them all in her hand a minute, and then she bent\nforward and dropped them in the open fire.\n\nAnd the sun rose a little higher, and fell on the tumbled brown hair that\nPeter had kissed and that now hid her eyes."