Jenks being attached to the A.S.C. engaged in feeding daily more than 100,000 men in the Rouen area, Peter and he travelled together. By the latter’s advice they reached the railway-station soon after 8.30, but even so the train seemed full. There were no lights in the siding, and none whatever on the train, so that it was only by matches that one could tell if a compartment was full or empty, except in the case of those from which candle-light and much noise proclaimed the former indisputably. At last, however, somewhere up near the engine, they found a second-class carriage, apparently unoccupied, with a big ticket marked “Reserved” upon it. Jenks struck a match and regarded this critically. “Well, padre,” he said, “as it doesn’t say for whom it is reserved, I guess it may as well be reserved for us. So here goes.” He swung up and tugged at the door, which for some time refused to give. Then it opened suddenly, and Second-Lieutenant Jenks, A.S.C., subsided gracefully and luridly on the ground outside. Peter struck another match and peered in. It was then observed that the compartment was not empty, but that a dark-haired, lanky youth, stretched completely along one seat, was regarding them solemnly.

“This carriage is reserved,” he said.

“Yes,” said Jenks cheerfully, “for us, sir. May I ask what you are doing in it?”

The awakened one sighed. “It’s worked before, and if you chaps come in and shut the door quickly, perhaps it will work again. Three’s not too bad, but I’ve seen six in these perishing cars. Come in quickly, for the Lord’s sake!”

Peter looked round him curiously. Two of the four windows were broken, and the glory had departed from the upholstery. There was no light, and it would appear that a heavier body than that designed for it had travelled upon the rack. Jenks was swearing away to himself and trying to light a candle-end. Peter laughed.

“Got any cards?” asked the original owner.

“Yes,” said Jenks. “Got any grub?”

“Bath-olivers and chocolate and half a water-bottle of whisky,” replied the original owner. “And we shall need them.”

“Good enough,” said Jenks. “And the padre here has plenty of sandwiches, for he ordered a double lot.”

“Do you play auction, padre?” queried what turned out, in the candle-light, to be a Canadian.

Peter assented; he was moderately good, he knew.

This fairly roused the Canadian. He swung his legs off the seat, and groped for the door. “Hang on to this dug-out, you men,” he said, “and I’ll get a fourth. I kidded some fellows of ours with that notice just now, but I know them, and I can get a decent chap to come in.”

He was gone a few minutes only; then voices sounded outside. “Been looking for you, old dear,” said their friend. “Only two sportsmen here and a nice little show all to ourselves. Tumble in, and we’ll get cheerful. Not that seat, old dear. But wait a jiffy; let’s sort things out first.”

They snorted out of the dreary tunnel into Rouen in the first daylight of the next morning. Peter looked eagerly at the great winding river and the glory of the cathedral as it towered up above the mists that hung over the houses. There was a fresh taste of spring in the air, and the smoke curled clear and blue from the slow-moving barges on the water. The bare trees on the island showed every twig and thin branch, as if they had been pencilled against the leaden-coloured flood beneath. A tug puffed fussily upstream, red and yellow markings on its grimy black.

Jenks was asleep in the corner, but he woke as they clattered across the bridge. “Heigh-ho!” he sighed, stretching. “Back to the old graft again.”

Yet once more Peter began to collect his belongings. It seemed ages since he had got into the train at Victoria, and he felt particularly grubby and unshaven.

“What’s the next move?” he asked.

Jenks eyed him. “Going to take a taxi?” he queried.

“Where to?” said Peter.

“Well, if you ask me, padre,” he replied, “I don’t see what’s against a decent clean-up and breakfast at the club. It doesn’t much matter when I report, and the club’s handy for your show. I know the A.C.G.’s office, because it’s in the same house as the Base Cashier, and the club’s just at the bottom of the street. But it’s the deuce of a way from the station. If we can get a taxi, I vote we take it.”

“Right-o,” agreed Peter. “You lead on.”

They tumbled out on the platform, and produced the necessary papers at the exit labelled “British Officers Only.” A red-capped military policeman wrote down particulars on a paper, and in a few minutes they were out among the crowd of peasantry in the booking-hall. Jenks pushed through, and had secured a cab by the time Peter arrived. “There isn’t a taxi to be got, padre,” he said, “but this’ll do.”

They rolled off down an avenue of wintry trees, passed a wooden building which Peter was informed was the English military church, and out on to the stone-paved quay. To Peter the drive was an intense delight. A French blue-coated regiment swung past them. “Going up the line,” said Jenks. A crowd of black troops marched by in the opposite direction. “Good Lord!” said Jenks, “so the S.A. native labour has come.” The river was full of craft, but his mentor explained that the true docks stretched mile on mile downstream. By a wide bridge lay a camouflaged steamer. “Hospital ship,” said Jenks. Up a narrow street could be seen the buttresses of the cathedral; and if Peter craned his head to glance up, his companion was more occupied in the great cafe at the corner a little farther on. But it was, of course, deserted at that early hour. A flower-stall at the corner was gay with flowers, and two French peasant women were arranging the blooms. And then the fiacre swung into the Rue Joanne d’Arc, and opposite a gloomy-looking entrance pulled up with a jerk. “Here we are,” said Jenks. “It’s up an infernal flight of steps.”

The officers’ club in Rouen was not monstrously attractive, but they got a good wash in a little room that looked out over a tangle of picturesque roofs, and finally some excellent coffee and bacon and eggs.

Jenks lit a cigarette and handed one to Peter. “Better leave your traps,” he said. “I’ll go up with you; I’ve nothing to do.”

Outside the street was filling with the morning traffic, and the two walked up the slight hill to the accompaniment of a running fire of comments and explanations from Jenks, “That’s Cox’s useful place for the first half of a month, but not much use to me, anyway, for the second.... You ought to go to I that shop and buy picture post-cards, padre; there’s a topping girl who sells ’em.... Rue de la Grosse Horloge you can see the clock hanging over the road. The street runs up to the cathedral: rather jolly sometimes, but nothing doing now.... What’s that? I don’t know. Yes, I do, Palais de Justice or something of that sort. Pretty old, I believe.... In those gardens is the picture gallery; not been in myself, but I believe they’ve got some good stuff.... That’s your show, over there. Don’t be long; I’ll hang about.”

Peter crossed the street, and, following directions ascended some wooden stairs. A door round the corner at the top was inscribed “A.C.G. (C. of E.),” and he went up to it. There he cogitated: ought one to knock, or, being in uniform, walk straight in? He could not think of any reason why one should not knock being in uniform, so he knocked.

“Come in,” said a voice.

He opened the door and entered. At a desk before him sat a rather elderly man, clean-shaven, who eyed him keenly. On his left, with his back to him, was a man in uniform pattering away busily on a typewriter, and, for the rest, the room contained a few chairs, a coloured print of the Light of the World over the fireplace, and a torn map. Peter again hesitated. He wondered what was the rank of the officer in the chair, and if he ought to salute. While he hesitated, the other said: “Good-morning. What can I do for you?”

Peter, horribly nervous, made a half-effort at saluting, and stepped forward. “My name’s Graham, sir,” he said. “I’ve just come over, and was told in the C.G.’s office in London to report to Colonel Chichester, A.C.G., at Rouen.”

The other put him at his ease at once. He rose and held a hand out over the littered desk. “How do you do, Mr. Graham?” he said. “We were expecting you. I am the A.C.G. here, and we’ve plenty for you to do. Take a seat, won’t you? I believe I once heard you preach at my brother’s place down in Suffolk. You were at St. Thomas’s, weren’t you, down by the river?”

Peter warmed to the welcome. It was strangely familiar, after the past twenty-four hours, to hear himself called “Mr.” and, despite the uniforms and the surroundings, he felt he might be in the presence of a vicar in England. Some of his old confidence began to return. He replied freely to the questions.

Presently the other glanced at his watch. “Well,” he said, “I’ve got to go over to H.Q., and you had better be getting to your quarters. Where did I place Captain Graham, Martin?”

The orderly at the desk leaned sideways and glanced at a paper pinned on the desk. “N Rest Camp, sir,” he said.

“Ah, yes, I remember now. You can get a tram at the bottom of the street that will take you nearly all the way. It’s a pretty place, on the edge of the country. You’ll find about one thousand men in camp, and the O.C.’s name is what is it, Martin?”

“Captain Harold, sir.”

“Harold, that’s it. A decent chap. The men are constantly coming and going, but there’s a good deal to do.”

“Is there a chapel in the camp?” asked Peter.

“Oh, no, I don’t think so. You’ll use the canteen. There’s a quiet room there you can borrow for celebrations. There’s a P.O.W. camp next door one way and a South African Native Labour Corps lot the other. But they have their own chaplains. We’ll let you down easy at first, but you might see if you can fix up a service or so for the men in the forest. There’s a Labour Company out there cutting wood. Maybe you’ll be able to get a lift out in a car, but get your O.C. to indent for a bicycle if there isn’t one. Drop in and see me some day and tell me how you are getting on, I’ll find you some more work later on.”

Peter got up. The other held out his hand, which Peter took, and then, remembering O.T.C. days at Oxford, firmly and, unblushingly saluted. The Colonel made a little motion. “Good-bye,” he said, and Peter found himself outside the door.

“N Rest. Camp;” said Jenks a moment later: “you’re in luck, padre. It’s a topping camp, and the skipper is an awfully good sort. Beast of a long way out, though. You’ll have to have a taxi now.”

“The A.C.G. said a tram would do,” said Peter.

“Then he talked through his blooming hat,” replied the other. “He’s probably never been there in his little life. It’s two miles beyond the tram terminus if it’s a yard. My place is just across the river, and there’s a ferry that pretty well drops you there. Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll see you down and then skip over.”

“What about your stuff, though?” queried Peter.

“Oh? bless you, I can get a lorry to collect that. That’s one use in being A.S.C., at any rate.”

“It’s jolly decent of you,” said Peter.

“Not a bit, old dear,” returned the other. “You’re the right sort, padre, and I’m at a loose end just now. Besides, I’d like to see old Harold. He’s one of the best. Come on.”

They found a taxi this time, near the Gare du Vert, and ran quickly out, first over cobbles, then down a wide avenue with a macadamised surface which paralleled the river, downstream.

“Main road to Havre,” volunteered Jenks. “I’ve been through once or twice with our stuff. It’s a jolly pretty run, and you can lunch in Candebec with a bit of luck, which is one of the beauty-spots of the Seine, you know.”

The road gave on open country in a few miles, though there were camps to be seen between it and the river, with wharves and buildings at intervals, and ahead a biggish waterside village. Just short of that they pulled up. A notice-board remarked “N Rest Camp,” and Peter saw he had arrived.

The sun was well up by this time, and his spirits with it. The country smiled in the clear light. Behind the camp fields ran up to a thick wood through which wound a road, and the river was just opposite them. A sentry came to attention as they passed in, sloped arms, and saluted. Peter stared at him. “You ought to take the salute, padre,” said Jenks; “you’re senior to me, you know.”

They passed down a regular street of huts, most of which had little patches of garden before them in which the green of some early spring flowers was already showing, and stopped before the orderly-room. Jenks said he would look in and see if “the skipper” were inside, and in a second or two came out with a red-faced, cheerful-looking man, whom he introduced as Captain Harold. With them was a tall young Scots officer in a kilt, whom Peter learned was Lieutenant Mackay of their mess.

“Glad to see you, padre,” said Harold. “Our last man wasn’t up to much, and Jenks says you’re a sport. I’ve finished in there, so come on to the mess and let’s have a spot for luck. Come on, Scottie. Eleven o’clock’s all right for you, isn’t it?”

“Shan’t say no,” said the gentleman addressed, and they passed behind the orderly-room and in at an open door.

Peter glanced curiously round. The place was very cheerful a fire burning and gay pictures on the wall. “Rather neat, isn’t it, padre?” queried Harold. “By the way, you’ve got to dub up a picture. Everyone in the mess gives one. There’s a blank space over there that’ll do nicely for a Kirschner, if you’re sport enough for that, Jenko’ll show you where to get a topper. What’s yours, old son?”

“Same as usual, skipper,” said Jenks, throwing himself into a chair.

Harold walked across to a little shuttered window and tapped. A man’s face appeared in the opening, “Four whiskies, Hunter that’s all right, padre?”

“Yes,” said Peter, and walked to the fire, while the talk became general.

“First time over?” queried Mackay.

“Well, how’s town?” asked Harold. “Good shows on? I ought to be due next month, but I think I’ll! wait a bit. Want to get over in the spring and see a bit of the country too. What do they think of the war over there, Jenko?”

“It’s going to be over by summer. There’s a big push coming off this spring, and Fritz can’t stand much more. He’s starving, and has no reserves worth talking of. The East does not matter, though the doings at Salonika have depressed them no end. This show’s going to be won on the West, and that quickly. Got it, old bean?”

“Good old Blighty!” ejaculated Harold. “But they don’t really believe all that, do they, padre?”

“They do,” said Peter. “And, to tell you the truth, I wondered if I’d be over in time myself. Surely the Yanks must come in and make a difference.”

“This time next year, perhaps, though I doubt it. What do you think, Scottie?”

“Oh, ask another! I’m sick of it. Say, skipper, what about that run out into the forest you talked of?”

“Good enough. Would you care to go, padre? There’s a wood-cuttin’ crowd out there, and I want to see ’em about firewood. There’s a car possible to-day, and we could all pack in.”

“Count me out,” said Jenks. “I’ll have to toddle over and report. Sorry, all the same.”

“I’d love it,” said Peter. “Besides, the A.C.G. said I was to look up those people.”

“Oh, well done. It isn’t a joy-ride at all, then. Have another, padre, and let’s get off. No? Well, I will. How’s yours, Scottie?”

Ten minutes later the three of them got into a big car and glided smoothly off, first along the river, and then up a steep road into the forest. Peter, fresh from London, lay back and enjoyed it immensely. He had no idea Normandy boasted such woods, and the world looked very good to him. It was all about as different from what he had imagined as it could possibly have been. He just set himself to appreciate it.

The forest was largely fir and pine, and the sunlight glanced down the straight trunks and patterned on the carpet beneath. Hollies gleamed green against the brown background, and in an open space of bare beech trees the littered ground was already pricked with the new green of the wild hyacinth. Now and again the rounded hills gave glimpses of the far Normandy plain across the serpentine river, then would as suddenly close in on them again until the car seemed to dart between the advancing battalions of the forest as though to escape capture. At length, in one such place, they leaped forward up a short rise, then rushed swiftly downhill, swung round a corner, and came out on what had become all but a bare tableland, set high so that one could see distant valleys Boscherville, Duclair and yet bare, for the timber had been all but entirely cut down.

Five hundred yards along this road brought them to a small encampment. There were some lines of Nysson huts, a canteen with an inverted triangle for sign, some tents, great stacks of timber and of smaller wood, a few lorries drawn up and silent, and, beyond, two or three buildings of wood set down by themselves, with a garden in front, and a notice “Officers’ Quarters.” Here, then, Captain Harold stopped the car, and they got out. There were some jovial introductions, and presently the whole party set off across the cleared space to where, in the distance, one could see the edge of the forest.

Peter did not want to talk, and dropped a little behind. Harold and the O.C. of the forestry were on in front, and Mackay, with a junior local officer, were skirmishing about on the right, taking pot-shots with small chunks of wood at the stumps of trees and behaving rather like two school-boys.

The air was all heavy with resinous scent, and the carpet beneath soft with moss and leaves and fragrant slips of pine. Here and there, on a definite plan, a small tree had been spared, and when he joined the men ahead, Peter learned how careful were the French in all this apparently wholesale felling. In the forest, as they saw as they reached it, the lines were numbered and lettered and in some distant office every woodland group was known with its place and age. There are few foresters like the French, and it was cheering to think that this great levelling would, in a score of years, do more good than harm.

Slowly biting into the untouched regiments of trees were the men, helped in their work by a small power engine. The great trunks were lopped and roughly squared here, and then dragged by motor traction to a slide, which they now went to view. It was a fascinating sight. The forest ended abruptly on a high hill, and below, at their feet, wound the river. Far down, working on a wharf that had been constructed of piles driven into the mud, was a Belgian detachment with German prisoners, and near the wharf rough sheds housed the cutting plant. Where they stood was the head of a big slide, with back-up sides, and the forest giants, brought to the top from the place where they were felled, were levered over, to swish down in a cloud of dust to the waiting men beneath.

“Well, skipper, what about the firewood?” asked Harold as they stood gazing.

“How much do you want?” asked the O.C. Forestry.

“Oh, well, what can you let me have? You’ve got stacks of odd stuff about; surely you can spare a bit.”

“It’s clean agin regulations, but could you send for it?”

“Rather! There’s an A.S.C. camp below us, and the men there promised me a lorry if I’d share the spoils with them. Will that do?”

“All right. When will you send up?”

“What’s to-day? Wednesday? How about Sunday? I could put some boys on to load up who’d like the jaunt. How would Sunday do?”

“Capital. My chaps work on all day, of course, and I don’t want to give them extra, so send some of yours.”

Peter listened, and now cut in.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but I was told I ought to try and get a service of some sort out here. Could I come out on the lorry and hold one?”

“Delighted, padre, of course. I’ll see what I can do for you. About eleven? Probably you won’t get many men as there are usually inspection parades and some extra fatigues on Sunday, but I’ll put it in orders. We haven’t had a padre for a long time.”

“Eleven would suit me,” said Peter, “if Captain Harold thinks the lorry can get up here by that time. Will it, sir?”

“Oh, I should think so, and, anyway, an hour or so won’t make much difference. If I can, I’ll come with you myself. But, I say, we ought to be getting back now. It will be infernally late for luncheon.”

“Come and have a drink before you start, anyway,” said the O.C.; and he led the way back to the camp and into an enclosure made of bushes and logs in the rear of the mess, where rustic seats and a table had been constructed under the shade of a giant oak. “It’s rattling here in summer,” he said, “and we have most of our meals out of doors. Sit down, won’t you? Orderly!”

“By Jove! you people are comfortable out here,” said Harold. “Wish I had a job of this sort.”

“Oh, I don’t know, skipper; it would feed you up after a while, I think. It’s bally lonely in the evening, and we can’t always get a car to town. It’s a damned nuisance getting out again, too.” Then, as the orderly brought glasses and a bottle: “Have a spot. It’s Haig and Haig, Mackay, and the right, stuff.”

“Jolly good, sir,” said that worthy critically. “People think because I don’t talk broad Scots I’m no Highlander, but when it comes to the whisky I’ve got a Scottish thirst. Say when, sir.”

Peter had another because he was warm with the sense of good comradeship, and was warmer still when he climbed into the car ten minutes later. Life seemed so simple and easy; and he was struck with the cheeriness of his new friends, and the ready welcome to himself and his duty. He waved to the O.C. “See you Sunday, sir,” he called, out, “’bout eleven. You won’t forget to put it in orders, will you? Cheerio.”

“Let’s go round by the lower road, skipper,” said Mackay. “We can look in at that toppin’ little pub what’s its name, Croix something? and besides, the surface is capital down there.”

“And see Marie, eh? But don’t forget you’ve got a padre aboard.”

“Oh, he’s all right, and if he’s going to be out here, it’s time he knew Marie.”

Graham laughed. “Carry on,” he said. “It’s all one to me where we go, skipper.”

He lay back more comfortably than ever, and the big car leaped forward through the forest, ever descending towards the river level. Soon the trees thinned, and they were skirting ploughed fields. Presently they ran through a little village, where a German prisoner straightened himself from his work in a garden and saluted. Then through a wood which suddenly gave a vista of an avenue to a stately house, turreted in the French style, a quarter of a mile away; then over a little stream; then round a couple of corners, past a dreamy old church, and a long immemorial wall, and so out into the straight road along the river. The sun gleamed on the water, and there were ships in view, a British and a couple of Norwegian tramps, ploughing slowly down to the sea. On the far bank the level of the land was low, but on this side only some narrow apple-orchards and here and there lush water-meadows separated them from the hills.

The Croix de Guerre stood back from the road in a long garden just where a forest bridle-path wound down through a tiny village to the main road. Their chauffeur backed the car all but out of sight into this path after they climbed out, and the three of them made for a sidedoor in a high wall. Harold opened it and walked in. The pretty trim little garden had a few flowers in bloom, so sheltered was it, and Mackay picked a red rosebud as they walked up the path.

Harold led the way without ceremony into a parlour that opened off a verandah, and, finding it empty, opened a door beyond. “Marie! Marie!” he called.

“Ah, Monsieur lé Capitaine, I come,” came a girl’s voice, and Marie entered. Peter noticed how rapidly she took them all in, and how cold were the eyes that nevertheless sparkled and greeted Harold and Mackay with seeming gaiety. She was short and dark and not particularly good-looking, but she had all the vivacity and charm of the French.

“Oh, monsieur, where have you been for so long? I thought you had forgotten La Croix de Guerre altogether. It’s the two weeks no, three since you come here. The gentlemen will have dejeuner? And perhaps a little aperitif before?”

“Bon jour, Marie,” began the Captain in clumsy French, and then abandoned the attempt. “I could not come, Marie, you know. C’est la guerre. Much work each day.”

“Ah, non, monsieur cannot cheat me. He had found another cafe and another girl.... Non, non, monsieur, it is not correct;” and the girl drew herself up with a curiously changed air as Harold clumsily reached out towards her, protesting. “And you have a cure here how do you say, a chapelain?” and Marie beamed on Peter.

The two officers looked at him and laughed. “What can I bring you, Monsieur lé Capitaine lé Cure?” demanded the girl. “Vermuth? Cognac?”

Mackay slipped from the edge of the table on which he had been sitting and advanced towards her, speaking fluent French, with a curious suggestion of a Scotch accent that never appeared in his English. Peter watched with a smile on his face and a curious medley of feelings, while the Lieutenant explained, that they could not stop to lunch, that they would take three mixed vermuth, and that he would come and help her get them. They went out together, Marie protesting, and Harold, lighting a cigarette and offering one to Peter, said with a laugh: “He’s the boy, is Mackay. Wish I could sling the lingo like him. It’s a great country, padre.”

In a minute or two the pair of them came back, Marie was wearing the rose at the point of the little decollete of her black dress, and was all over smiles. She carried a tray with glasses and a bottle. Mackay carried the other. With a great show, he helped her pour out, and chatted away in French while they drank.

Harold and Peter talked together, but the latter caught scraps of the others’ conversation. Mackay wanted to know, apparently, when she would be next in town, and was urging a date on her. Peter caught “Rue Jeanne d’Arc,” but little more, and Harold was insistent on a move in a few minutes. They skirmished at the door saying “Good-bye,” but it was with an increased feeling of the warmth and jollity of his new life that Peter once more boarded the car. This time Mackay got in front and Harold joined Graham behind. As they sped off, Peter said:

“By Jove, skipper, you do have a good time out here!”

Harold flicked off the ash of his cigarette. “So, so, padre,” he said. “But the devil’s loose. It’s all so easy; I’ve never met a girl yet who was not out for a spree. Of course, we don’t see anything of the real French ladies, though, and this isn’t the line. By God! when I think of the boys up there, I feel a beast sometimes. But I can’t help it; they won’t pass me to go up, and it’s no use growling down here because of it.”

“I suppose not,” said Peter, and leaned back reflecting for the rest of the way. He felt as if he had known these men all his days, and as if his London life had been lived on another planet.

After lunch he was given a cubicle, and spent an hour or two getting unpacked. That done, just as he was about to sit down to a letter, there came a knock at the door, and Mackay looked in.

“You there, padre?” he asked. “There’s a lorry going up to town that has just brought a batch of men in: would you care to come? I’ve got to do some shopping, and we could dine at the club and come back afterwards.”

Peter jumped up. “Topping,” he said. “I want to get one or two things, and I’d love it.”

“Come on, then,” said the other. “I’ll meet you at the gate in five minutes.”

Peter got on his Sam Browne and went out, and after a bit Mackay joined him. They jolted up to town, and went first to the Officers’ Store at the E.F.C. Mackay bought some cigarettes, and Peter some flannel collars and a tie. Together the pair of them strolled round town, and put their heads in at the cathedral at Peter’s request. He had a vision of old grey stone and coloured glass and wide soaring spaces, but his impatient companion hauled him out. “Of course, you’ll want to see round, padre,” he said, “but you can do it some other time and with somebody else. I’ve seen it once, and that’s enough for me. Let’s get on to the club and book a table; there’s usually a fearful crowd.”

Peter was immensely impressed with the crowd of men, the easy greetings of acquaintances, and the way in which one was ignored by the rest. He was introduced to several people, who were all very cheerful, and in the long dining-room they eventually sat down to table with two more officers whom the Scotsman knew. Peter was rather taken with a tall man, slightly bald, of the rank of Captain, who was attached to a Labour Corps. He had travelled a great deal, and been badly knocked about in Gallipoli. In a way, he was more serious than the rest, and he told Peter a good deal about the sights of the town the old houses and churches, and where was the best glass, and so on. Mackay and the fourth made merry, and Mackay, who called the W.A.A.C. waitress by her Christian name, was plainly getting over-excited. Peter’s friend was obviously a little scornful. “You’ll meet a lot of fools here, padre,” he said, “old and young. The other day I was having tea here when two old buffers came in dug-outs, shoved into some job or another and they sat down at the table next mine. I couldn’t help hearing what they said. The older and fatter, a Colonel, looked out of window, and remarked ponderously:

“‘By the way, wasn’t Joan of Arc born about here?’

“‘No,’ said the second; ’down in Alsace-Lorraine, I believe. She was burnt here, and they threw her ashes into the Grand Pont.’”

Peter laughed silently, and the other smiled at him. “Fact,” he said. “That’s one type of ass, and the second is (dropping his voice) your friend here and his like, if you don’t mind my saying so. Look at him with that girl now. Somebody’ll spot it, and they’ll keep an eye on him. Next time he meets her on the sly he’ll be caught out, and be up for it. Damned silly fool, I think! The bally girl’s only a waitress from Lyons.”

Peter glanced at Mackay. He was leaning back holding the menu, which she, with covert glances at the cashier’s desk, was trying to take away from him. “Isobel,” he said, “I say, come here no, I really want to see it tell me, when do you get out next?”

“We don’t get no leave worth talking of, you know,” she said. “Besides, you don’t mean it. You can’t talk to me outside. Oh, shut up! I must go. They’ll see us,” and she darted away.

“Damned pretty girl, eh?” said Mackay contentedly. “Don’t mind me, padre. It’s only a bit of a joke. Come on, let’s clear out.”

The four went down the stairs together and stood in a little group at the entrance-door. “Where you for now, Mac?” asked the second officer, a subaltern of the West Hampshires.

“Don’t know, old sport. I’m with the padre. What you for, padre?”

“I should think we had better be getting back,” said Peter, glancing at the watch on his wrist. “We’ve a long way to go.”

“Oh, hang it all, not yet! It’s a topping evenin’. Let’s stroll up the street.”

Peter glanced at the Labour Corps Captain, who nodded, and they two turned off together. “There’s not much to do,” he said. “One gets sick of cinemas, and the music-hall is worse, except when one is really warmed up for a razzle-dazzle. I don’t wonder these chaps go after wine and women more than they ought. After all, most of them are just loose from home. You must make allowances, padre. It’s human nature, you know.”

Peter nodded abstractedly. It was the second time he had heard that. “It’s all so jolly different from what I expected,” he said meditatively.

“I know,” said the other. “Not much danger or poverty or suffering here, seemingly. But you never can tell. Look at those girls: I bet you would probably sum them up altogether wrongly if you tried.”

Peter glanced at a couple of French women who were passing. The pair were looking at them, and in the light of a brilliantly lit cinema they showed up clearly. The paint was laid on shamelessly; their costumes, made in one piece, were edged with fur and very gay. Each carried a handbag and one a tasselled stick. “Good-night, chérie,” said one, as they passed.

Peter gave a little shudder. “How ghastly!” he said. “How can anyone speak to them? Are there many like that about?” He glanced back again: “Why, good heavens,” he cried, “one’s Marie!”

“Hullo, padre,” said his friend, the ghost of a smile beginning about his lips. “Where have you been? Marie! By Jove! I shall have to report you to the A.C.G.”

Peter blushed furiously. “It was at an inn,” he said, “this morning, as we were coming back from the forest. But she seemed so much better then, Mackay knew her; why, I heard him say....”

He glanced back at the sudden recollection. The two girls were speaking to the two others, twenty paces or so behind. “Oh,” he exclaimed, “look here!...”

The tall Labour man slipped his arm in his and interrupted. “Come on, padre,” he said; “you can’t do anything. Mackay’s had a bit too much as it is, and the other chap is looking for a night out. We’ll stroll past the cathedral, and I’ll see you a bit of the way home.”

“But how damnable, how beastly!” exclaimed Peter. “It makes one sick!...” He broke off, and the two walked on in silence.

“Is there much of that?” Peter demanded suddenly.

The other glanced at him. “You’ll find out without my telling you,” he said; “but don’t be too vehement till you’ve got your eyes open. There are worse things.”

“There can’t be,” broke in Peter. “Women like that, and men who will go with them, aren’t fit to be called men and women. There’s no excuse. It’s bestial, that’s what it is.”

“You wouldn’t speak to one?” queried the other.

“Good heavens, no! Do you forget what I am?”

“No, I don’t, padre, but look here, I’m not a Christian, and I take a common-sense view of these things, but I’m bound to say I think you’re on the wrong tack, too. Didn’t Christ have compassion on people like that? Didn’t He eat and drink with publicans and sinners?”

“Yes, to convert them. You can’t name the two things in the same breath. He had compassion on the multitude of hungry women and children and misguided men, but He hated sin. You can’t deny that.” Peter recalled his sermon; he was rather indignant, unreasonably, that the suggestion should have been made.

“So?” said the other laconically. “Well, you know more about it than I do, I suppose. Come on; we go down here.”

They parted at the corner by the river again, and Peter set out for his long walk home alone. It was a lovely evening of stars, cool, but not too cold, and at first the streets were full of people. He kept to the curb or walked in the road till he was out of the town, taking salutes automatically, his thoughts far away. The little cafes debits were crowded, largely by Tommies. He was not accosted again, for he walked fast, but he saw enough as he went.

More than an hour later he swung into camp, and went to his room, lit a candle, and shut the door. Tunic off, he sat on the edge of the camp-bed and stared at the light. He seemed to have lived a year in a day, and he felt unclean. He thought of Hilda, and then actually smiled, for Hilda and this life seemed so incredibly far apart. He could not conceive of her even knowing of its existence. Yet, he supposed, she knew, as he had done, that such things were. He had even preached about them.... It suddenly struck him that he had talked rot in the pulpit, talked of things of which he knew nothing. Yet, of course, his attitude had been right.

He wondered if he should speak to Mackay, and, so wondering, fell forward on his knees.