The Lessing family sat at dinner, and it was to be observed that some of those incredible wonders at which Peter Graham had once hinted to Hilda had come about. There were only three courses, and Mr. Lessing had but one glass of wine, for one thing; for another he was actually in uniform, and was far more proud of his corporal’s stripes than he had previously been of his churchwarden’s staff of office. Nor was he only in the Volunteers; he was actually in training to some extent, and the war had at any rate done him good. His wife was not dressed for dinner either; she had just come in from a war committee of some sort. A solitary maid waited on them, and they had already given up fires in the dining-room. Not that Mr. Lessing’s income had appreciably diminished, but, quite honestly, he and his were out to win the war. He had come to the conclusion at last that business could not go on as usual, but, routed out of that stronghold, he had made for himself another. The war was now to him a business. He viewed it in that light.

“We must stop them,” he was saying. “Mark my words, they’ll never get to Amiens. Did you see Haig’s last order to the troops? Not another inch was to be given at any cost. We shan’t give either. We’ve got to win this war; there’s too much at stake for us to lose. Whoever has to foot the bill for this business is ruined, and it’s not going to be Great Britain. They were saying in the Hall to-night that the Army is as cheerful as possible: that’s the best sign. I doubt the German Army is. Doesn’t Graham say anything about it, Hilda?”

“No, father,” said Hilda shortly, and bent over her plate.

“’Xtraordinary thing. He’s a smart chap, and I should have thought he’d have been full of it. Perhaps he’s too far back.”

“He was in a big town he doesn’t name the other day, in an air-raid, and a man was killed in his carriage.”

“Good Lord! you don’t say so? When did you hear that? I thought we had command of the air.”

“I got a letter to-night, father. He just mentioned that, but he doesn’t say much else about it. He’s at Abbeville now, on the Somme, and he says the Germans come over fairly often by night.”

“Impossible!” snorted the old man, “I have it on the best possible authority that our air service is completely up to date now, and far better than the German. He must be exaggerating. They would never allow the enemy to out-distance us in so important a department. What else does he say?”

“Oh, nothing;” said Hilda, “or at least nothing about the war in a way. It’s full of of his work.” She stopped abruptly.

“Well, well,” said Mr. Lessing, “I was against his going at first; but it’s all shoulders to the wheel now, and it was plain he ought to see a little life out there. A young man who doesn’t won’t have much of a look in afterwards that’s how I reasoned it. And he works hard, does Graham; I’ve always said that for him, I expect he’s of great service to them. Eh, Hilda?”

“I don’t know,” said the girl; “he doesn’t say. But he’s been chosen for some special work, lecturing or something, and that’s why he’s at Abbeville.”

“Ah! Good! Special work, eh? He’ll go far yet, that fellow. I don’t know that I’d have chosen him for you, Hilda, at first, but this business has shaken us all up, and I shouldn’t be surprised if Graham comes to the front over it.” He stopped as the maid came in, “I think I’ll have my coffee in the study, my dear,” he said to Mrs. Lessing; “I have some reading to do.”

When the two women were once more alone Mrs. Lessing put her cup down, and spoke. “What is it, dear?” she questioned.

Hilda did not look at her. The two, indeed, understood each other very well. “I can’t tell you here, mother,” she said.

“Come, then, dear,” said Mrs. Lessing, rising. “Let’s go to my room. Your father will be busy for some time, and we shall not be disturbed there.”

She led the way, and lit a small gas fire. “I can’t be cold in my bedroom,” she said; “and though I hate these things, they are better than nothing. Now, dear, what is it?”

Hilda seated herself on a footstool on the other side of the fire, and stared into it. The light shone on her fair skin and hair, and Mrs. Lessing contemplated her with satisfaction from several points of view. For one thing, Hilda was so sensible....

“What is it?” she asked again. “Your father saw nothing men don’t; but you can’t hide from me, dear, that your letter has troubled you. Is Peter in trouble?”

Hilda shook her head. Then she said: “Well, at least, mother, not that sort of trouble. I told father truly; he’s been picked for special service.”

“Well, then, what is it?” Mrs. Lessing was a trifle impatient.

“Mother,” said Hilda, “I’ve known that he has not been happy ever since his arrival in France, but I’ve never properly understood why. Peter is queer in some ways, you know. You remember that sermon of his? He won’t be content with things; he’s always worrying. And now he writes dreadfully. He says...” She hesitated. Then, suddenly, she pulled out the letter. “Listen, mother,” she said, and read what Peter had written in the club until the end. “’I am going to eat and drink with publicans and sinners; maybe I shall find my Master still there.’”

If Langton could have seen Mrs. Lessing he would have smiled that cynical smile of his with much satisfaction. She was frankly horrified rendered, in fact, almost speechless.

“Hilda!” she exclaimed. “What a thing to write to you! But what does he mean? Has he forgotten that he is a clergyman? Why, it’s positively blasphemous! He is speaking of Christ, I suppose. My poor girl, he must be mad. Surely you see that, dear.”

Hilda stared on into the fire, and made no reply. Her mother hardly needed one, “Has he met another woman, Hilda?” she demanded.

“I don’t know; he doesn’t say so,” said Hilda miserably. “But anyhow, I don’t see that that matters.”

“Not matter, girl! Are you mad too? He is your fiance, isn’t he? Really, I think I must speak to your father.”

Hilda turned her head slowly, and mother and daughter looked at each other. Mrs. Lessing was a woman of the world, but she was a good mother, and she read in her daughter’s eyes what every mother has to read sooner or later. It was as one woman to another, and not as mother to daughter, that she continued lamely: “Well, Hilda, what do you make of it all? What are you going to do?”

The girl looked away again, and a silence fell between them. Then she said, speaking in short, slow sentences:

“I will tell you what I make of it, mother. Peter’s gone beyond me, I think, now, that I have always feared a little that he might. Of course, he’s impetuous and headstrong, but it is more than that. He feels differently from me, from all of us. I can see that, though I don’t understand him a bit. I thought” (her voice faltered) “he loved me more. He knows how I wanted him to get on in the Church, and how I would have helped him. But that’s nothing to him, or next to nothing. I think he doesn’t love me at all, mother, and never really did.”

Mrs. Lessing threw her head back. “Then he’s a fool, my dear,” she said emphatically. “You’re worth loving; you know it. I should think no more about him, Hilda.”

Hilda’s hands tightened round her knees. “I can’t do that,” she said.

Mrs. Lessing was impatient again. “Do you mean, Hilda, that if he persists in this this madness, if he gives up the Church, for example, you will not break off the engagement? Mind you, that is the point. Every young man must have a bit of a fling, possibly even clergymen, I suppose, and they get over it. A sensible girl knows that. But if he ruins his prospects surely, Hilda, you are not going to be a fool?”

The word had been spoken again. Peter had had something to say on it, and now the gods gave Hilda her chance. She stretched her fine hands out to the fire, and a new note came into her voice.

“A fool, mother? Oh no, I shan’t be a fool. A fool would follow him to the end of the world. A fool of a woman would give him all he wants for the sake of giving, and be content with nothing in return. I see that. But I’m not made for that sort of foolery.... No, I shan’t be a fool.”

Mrs. Lessing could not conceal her satisfaction. “Well, I am sure I am very glad to hear you say it, and so would your father be. We have not brought you up carefully for nothing, Hilda. You are a woman now, and I don’t believe in trying to force a woman against her will, but I am heartily glad, my dear, that you are so sensible. When you are as old as I am and have a daughter of your own, you will be glad that you have behaved so to-night.”

Hilda got up, and put her hands behind her head, which was a favourite posture of hers. She stood looking down at her mother with a curious expression on her face. Mrs. Lessing could make nothing of it; she merely thought Hilda “queer”; she had travelled farther than she knew from youth.

“Shall I, mother?” said Hilda. “Yes, I expect I shall. I have been carefully brought up, as you say, so carefully that even now I can only just see what a fool might do, and I know quite well that I can’t do it. After a while I shall no more see it than you do. I shall even probably forget that I ever did. So that is all. And because I love him, really, I don’t think I can even say ‘poor Peter!’ That’s curious, isn’t it, mother?... Well, I think I’ll go to my room for a little. I won’t come in again. Good-night.”

She bent and kissed Mrs. Lessing. Her mother held her arms a moment more. “Then, what are you going to do?” she demanded.

Hilda freed herself, “Write and try to persuade him not to be a fool either, I think. Not that it’s any good. And then wait and see.” She walked to the floor, “Of course, this is just between us two, isn’t it, dear?” she said, playing with the handle.

“Of course,” said her mother. “But do be sensible, dear, and don’t wait too long. It is much better not to play with these things much better. And do tell me how things go, darling, won’t you?”

“Oh yes,” said Hilda slowly, “Oh yes I’ll tell you.... Good-night.”

She passed out and closed the door gently “I wonder why I can’t cry to-night?” she asked herself as she went to her room, and quite honestly she did not know.

Across the water Peter’s affairs were speeding up. If Hilda could have seen him that night she would probably have wept without difficulty, but for a much more superficial reason than the reason why she could not weep in London. And it came about in this way.

On the morning after the dinner Peter was moody, and declared lie would not go down to the office, but would take a novel out to the canal. He was in half a mind to go up and call at the hospital, but something held him back. Reflection showed him how near he had been to the fatal kiss the night before, and he did not wish, or, with the morning, he thought he did not wish, to see Julie so soon again. So he got his novel and went out to the canal, finding a place where last year’s leaves still lay thick, and one could lie at ease and read. We do these things all our days, and never learn the lesson.

Half-way through the morning he looked up to see Langton striding along towards him. He was walking quickly, with the air of one who brings news, and he delivered his message as soon as they were within earshot of each other. “Good news, Graham,” he called out. “This tomfoolery is over. They’ve heard from H.Q. that the whole stunt is postponed, and we’ve all to go back to our bases. Isn’t it like ’em?” he demanded, as he came up. “Old Jackson in the office is swearing like blazes. He’s had all his maps made and plans drawn up, etcetera and etcetera, and now they’re so much waste-paper. Jolly fortunate, any road.” He sat down and got out a pipe.

Peter shut his book. “I’m glad,” he said. “I’m sick of foolin’ round here. Not but what it isn’t a decent enough place, but I prefer the other. There’s more doing. When do we go?”

“To-morrow. They’re getting our movement orders, yours to Havre, mine to Rouen. I put in a spoke for you, to get one via Rouen, but I don’t know if you will. It’s a vile journey otherwise.”

“By Jove!” cried Peter. “I’ve an idea! Miss Gamelyn’s troop of motor-buses goes back to Havre to-morrow empty. Why shouldn’t I travel on them? Think I could work it?”

Langton puffed solemnly. “Sure, I should think,” he said, “being a padre, anyway.”

“What had I best do?”

“Oh, I should go and see Jackson and get him to ’phone the hospital for you that is, if you really want to go that way.”

“It’s far better than that vile train,” said Peter. “Besides, one can see the country, which I love. And I’ve never been in Dieppe, and they’re to go through there and pick up some casualties.”

“Just so,” said Langton, still smoking.

“Well,” said Peter, “reckon I’ll go and see about it. Jackson’s a decent old stick, but I’d best do it before he tackles the R.T.O. Coming?”

“No,” said Langton. “Leave that novel, and come back for me. You won’t be long.”

“Right-o,” said Peter, and set off.

It was easily done. Jackson had no objections, and rang up the hospital while Peter waited. Oh yes, certainly they could do it. What was the name? Captain. Graham, C.F. certainly. He must be at the hospital early eight-thirty the next morning. That all right? Thank you.

“Thank you,” said Peter. “Motoring’s a long sight better than the train these days, and I’ll get in quicker, too, as a matter of fact, or at any rate just as quickly.” He turned to go, but a thought struck him. “Have you an orderly to spare?” he asked.

“Any quantity,” said the other bitterly. “They’ve been detailed for weeks, and done nothing. You can have one with pleasure. It’ll give the perisher something to do.”

“Thanks,” said Peter; “I want to send a note, that’s all. May I write it here?”

He was given pen and paper, and scribbled a little note to Julie. He did not know who else might be on the lorry, or if she would want to appear to know him. The orderly was called and despatched and he left the place for the last time.

Langton and he walked out to St. Riquier in the afternoon, had tea there, and got back to dinner. A note was waiting for Peter, a characteristic one.

“DEAREST SOLOMON (it ran),

“You are really waking up! There will be three of us nurses in one lorry, and they’re sure to start you off in another. We lunch at Eu, and I’ll be delighted to see you. Then you can go on in our car. Dieppe’s on the knees of the gods, as you say, but probably we can pull off something.

“JULIE.”

He smiled and put it in his pocket. Langton said nothing till the coffee and liqueurs came in. Then he lit a cigarette and held the match out to Peter. “Wonder if we shall meet again?” he said.

“Oh, I expect so,” said Peter. “Write, anyway, won’t you? I’ll likely get a chance to come to Rouen.”

“And I likely won’t be there. I’m putting in again for another job. They’re short of men now, and want equipment officers for the R.A.F. It’s a stunt for which engineering’s useful, and I may get in. I don’t suppose I’ll see much of the fun, but it’s better than bossing up a labour company, any road.”

“Sportsman,” said Peter. “I envy you. Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve half a mind to put in too. Do you think I’d have a chance?”

“No,” said Langton brutally. “Besides, it’s not your line. You know what yours is; stick to it.”

“And you know that I’m not so sure that I can,” said Peter.

“Rot!” said the other. “You can if you like. You won’t gain by running away. Only I give you this bit of advice, old son: go slow. You’re so damned hot-headed! You can’t remake the world to order in five minutes; and if you could, I bet it wouldn’t be a much better old world. We’ve worried along for some time moderately well. Don’t be too ready to turn down the things that have worked with some success, at any rate, for the things that have never been tried.”

Peter smoked in silence. Then he said: “Langton you’re a bit different from what you were. In a way, it’s you who have set me out on this racket, and it’s you who encouraged me to try and get down to rock-bottom. You’ve always been a cautious old rotter, but you’re more than cautious now. Why?”

Langton leaned over and touched the other’s tunic pocket in which lay Julie’s note. Then he leaned back and went on with his cigarette.

Peter flushed. “It’s too late,” he said judicially, flicking off his ash.

“So? Well, I’m sorry, frankly sorry for her and sorry for you. But if it is, I’ll remember my own wisdom: it’s no use meddling with such things. For all that, you’re a fool, Peter, as I told you last night.”

“Just so. And I asked what was a fool.”

“And I didn’t answer. I reckon fools can be of many sorts. Your sort of fool chucks the world over for the quest of an ideal.”

“Thank you,” said Peter quietly.

“You needn’t. That fool is a real fool, and bigger than most. Ideals are ideals, and one can’t realise them. It’s waste of time to try.”

“Is it?” said Peter. “Well, at any rate, I don’t know that I’m out after them much. I don’t see any. All I know is that I’ve looked in the likely places, and now I’ll look in the unlikely.”

Langton ground his cigarette-end in his coffee-cup. “You will,” he said, “whatever I say.... Have another drink? After all, there’s no need to ‘turn down the empty glass’ yet.”

They did not see each other in the morning, and Peter made his way early to the hospital as arranged. The P.M.O. met him, and he was put in nominal charge of the three Red-Cross ambulance-cars. While he was talking to the doctor the three nurses came out and got in, Julie not looking in his direction; then he climbed up next the driver of the first car. “Cheerio,” said the P.M.O., and they were off.

It was a dull day, and mists hung over the water-meadows by the Somme. For all that Peter enjoyed himself immensely. They ran swiftly through the little villages, under the sweeping trees all new-budded into green, and soon had vistas of the distant sea. The driver of Peter’s car was an observant fellow, and he knew something of gardening. It was he who pointed out that the fruit-trees had been indifferently pruned or not pruned at all, and that there were fields no longer under the plough that had been plainly so not long before. In a word, the country bore its war scars, although it needed a clever eye to see them.

But Peter had little thought for this. Now and again, at a corner, he would glance back, his mind on Julie in the following car, while every church tower gave him pause for thought. He tried to draw the man beside him on religion, but without any success, though he talked freely enough of other things. He was for the Colonies after the war, he said. He’d knocked about a good deal in France, and the taste for travel had come to him. Canada appeared a land of promise; one could get a farm easily, and his motor knowledge would be useful on a farm these days. Yes, he had a pal out there, a Canadian who had done his bit and been invalided out of it. They corresponded, and he expected to get in with him, the one’s local knowledge eking out the other’s technical. No, he wasn’t for marrying yet awhile; he’d wait till he’d got a place for the wife and kiddies. Then he would. The thought made him expand a bit, and Peter smiled to himself as he thought of his conversation with Langton over the family group. It struck him to test the man, and as they passed a wayside Calvary, rudely painted, he drew his attention to it. “What do you think of that?” he asked.

The man glanced at it, and then away. “It’s all right for them as like it,” he said. “Religion’s best in a church, it seems to me. I’ve seen chaps mock at them crucifixes, sir, same as they wouldn’t if they’d only been in church.”

“Yes,” said Peter; “but I suppose some men have been helped by them who never would have been if they had only been in church. But don’t you think they’re rather gaudy?”

“Gaudy, sir? Meanin’ ’ighly painted? No, not as I knows on. They’re more like what happened, I reckon, than them brass crosses we have in our churches.”

They ran into Eu for lunch, and drew up in the market-square. Peter went round to the girls’ car, greeted Julie, and was introduced. He led them to an old inn in the square, and they sat down to luncheon in very good humour. The other girls were ordinary enough, and Julie rather subdued for her. Afterwards they spent an hour in the church and a picture-postcard shop, and it was there that Julie whispered: “Go on in your own car. At Dieppe, go to the Hotel Trois Poissons and wait for me. I found out yesterday that a woman I know is a doctor in Dieppe, and she lives there. I’ll get leave easily to call. Then I can see you. If we travel together these girls’ll talk; they’re just the sort.”

Peter nodded understanding, and they drifted apart. He went out to see if the cars were ready and returned to call the nurses, and in a few minutes they were off again.

The road now ran through forests nearly all the way, except where villages had cleared a space around them, as was plain to see. They crossed little streams, and finally came downhill through the forest into the river valley that leads to Dieppe. It was still early, and Peter stopped the cars to suggest that they might have a look at the castle of Arques-lé-Bataille. The grand old pile kept them nearly an hour, and they wandered about the ruins to their hearts’ content. Julie would climb a buttress of the ancient keep when their guide had gone on with the others, and Peter went up after her. She was as lissom as a boy and seemingly as strong, swinging up by roots of ivy and the branches of a near tree, in no wise impeded by her short skirts. From the top one had, indeed, a glorious view. The weather had cleared somewhat, and one could see every bit of the old castle below, the village at its feet, and the forest across the little stream out of which the Duke of Mayenne’s infantry had debouched that day of battle from which the village took its name.

“They had some of the first guns in the castle, which was held for Henry of Navarre,” explained Peter, “and they did great execution. I suppose they fired one stone shot in about every five minutes, and killed a man about every half-hour. The enemy were more frightened than hurt, I should think. Anyway, Henry won.”

“Wasn’t he the King who thought Paris worth more than a Mass?” she demanded.

“Yes,” said Peter, watching her brown eyes as she stared out over the plain.

“I wonder what he thinks now,” she said.

He laughed. “You’re likely to wonder,” he said.

“Funny old days,” said Julie. “I suppose there were girls in this castle watching the fight. I expect they cared more for the one man each half-hour the cannon hit than for either Paris or the Mass. That’s the way of women, Peter, and a damned silly way it is! Come on, let’s go. I’ll get down first, if you please.”

On the short road remaining Peter asked his chauffeur if he knew the Trois Poissons, and, finding that he did, had the direction pointed out. They ran through the town to the hospital, and Peter handed his cars over. “I’ll sleep in town,” he said. “What time ought we to start in the morning?” He was told, and walked away. Julie had disappeared.

He found the Trois Poissons without difficulty, and made his way to the sitting-room, a queer room opening from the pavement direct on the one side, and from the hall of the hotel on the other. It had a table down the middle, a weird selection of chairs, and a piano. A small woman was sitting in a chair reading the Tatler and smoking. An empty glass stood beside her.

She looked up as he came in, and he noticed R.A.M.C. badges. “Good-evening,” he said cheerily.

“Good-evening, padre,” she replied, plainly willing to talk. “Where have you sprung from?”

“Abbeville via Eu in a convoy of Red Cross cars,” he said, “and I feel like a sun-downer. Won’t you have another with me?”

“Sure thing,” she said, and he ordered a couple from the French maid who came in answer to his ring. “Do you live here?” he asked.

“For my sins I do,” she said. “I doctor Waac’s, and I don’t think much of it. A finer, heartier lot of women I never saw. Epsom salts is all they want. A child could do it.”

Peter laughed. “Well, I don’t see why you should grumble,” he said.

“Don’t you? Where’s the practice? This business out here is the best chance for doctors in a lifetime, and I have to strip strapping girls hopelessly and endlessly.”

“You do, do you?” said a voice in the doorway, and there stood Julie. “Well, at any rate you oughtn’t to talk about it like that to my gentleman friends, especially padres. How do you do, my dear?”

“Julie, by all that’s holy! Where have you sprung from?”

She glanced from one to the other. “From Abbeville via Eu in a convoy of Red Cross cars, I dare bet,” she said.

“Julie, you’re beyond me. If you weren’t so strong I’d smack you, but as it is, give me another kiss. And introduce us. There may as well be propriety somewhere.”

They sorted themselves out and sat down. “What do you think of my rig?” demanded Dr. Melville (as Julie had introduced her).

“Toppin’,” said Julie critically. “But what in the world is it? Chiefly Waac, with three pukka stars and an R.A.M.C. badge. Teanie, how dare you do it?”

“I dare do all that doth become a woman,” she answered complacently. “And it doth, doth it not? Skirt’s a trifle short, perhaps,” she added, sticking out a leg and examining the effect critically, “but upper’s eminently satisfactory.”

Julie leaned over and prodded her. “No corsets?” she inquired innocently.

“Julie, you’re positively indecent. You must have tamed your padre completely. You’re not married by any chance?” she added suddenly.

Julie screamed with laughter. “Oh, Teanie, you’ll be the death of me,” she said at last. “Solomon, are we married? I don’t think so, Teanie. There’s never no telling these days, but I can’t recollect it.”

“Well, it strikes me you ought to be if you’re jogging round the country together,” said the other, her eyes twinkling. “But if you’re not, take warning, padre. A girl that talks about corsets in public isn’t respectable, especially as she doesn’t wear them herself, except in the evening, for the sake of other things. Or she used not to. But perhaps you know?”

Peter tried to look comfortable, but he was completely out of his depth. He finished his drink with a happy inspiration, and ordered another. That down, he began to feel more capable of entering into the spirit of these two. They were the sort he wanted to know, both of them, women about as different from those he had met as they could possibly be.

Another man dropped in after a while, so the talk became general. The atmosphere was very free and easy, bantering, careless, jolly, and Peter expanded in it. Julie led them all. She was never at a loss, and apparently had no care in the world.

The two girls and Peter went together to dinner and sat at the same table. They talked a good deal together, and Peter gathered they had come to know each other at a hospital in England. They were full of reminiscences.

“Do you remember ducking Pockett?” Teanie asked Julie.

“Lor’, I should think I do! Tell Peter. He won’t be horrified unless you go into details. If I cough, Solomon, you’re to change the subject. Carry on, Teanie.”

“Well, Pockett was a nurse of about the last limit. She was fearfully snobby, which nobody of that name ought to be, and she ruled her pros. with a rod of iron. I expect that was good for them, and I say nothing as to that, but she was a beast to the boys. We had some poor chaps in who were damnably knocked about, and one could do a lot for them in roundabout ways. Regulations are made to be broken in some cases, I think. But she was a holy terror. Sooner than call her, the boys would endure anything, but some of us knew, and once she caught Julie here...”

“It wasn’t it was you, Teanie.”

“Oh, well, one of us, anyway, in her ward when she was on night duty, sitting with a poor chap who pegged out a few days after. It soothed him to sit and hold her hand. Well, anyway, she was furious and reported it. There was a bit of a row had to be, I suppose, as it was against regulations but thank God the P.M.O. knew his job, so there was only a strafe with the tongue in the cheek. However, we swore revenge, and we had it eh, Julie?”

“We did. Go on. It was you who thought of it.”

“Well, we filled a bath with tepid water and then went to her room one night. She was asleep, and never heard us. We had a towel round her head in two twinks, and carried her by the legs and arms to the bathroom. Julie had her legs, and held ’em well up, so that down went her head under water. She couldn’t yell then. When we let her up, I douched her with cold water, and then we bolted. We saw to it that there wasn’t a towel in the bathroom, and we locked her bedroom door. Oh, lor’, poor soul, but it was funny! She met an orderly in the corridor, and he nearly had a fit, and I don’t wonder, for her wet nightie clung to her figure like a skin. She had to try half a dozen rooms before she got anyone to help her, and then, when she got back, we’d ragged her room to blazes. She never said a word, and left soon after. Ever hear of her again, Julie?”

“No,” said she, looking more innocent than ever, Peter thought; “but I expect she’s made good somewhere. She must have had something in her or she’d have kicked up a row.”

Miss Melville was laughing silently. “You innocent babe unborn,” she said; “never shall I forget how you held....”

“Come on, Captain Graham,” said Julie, getting up; “you’ve got to see me home, and I want a nice walk by the sea-front.”

They went out together, and stood at the hotel door in the little street. There was a bit of a moon, with clouds scurrying by, and when it shone the road was damp and glistening in the moonlight. “What a heavenly night!” said Julie. “Come on with us along the sea-front, Teanie do!”

Miss Melville smiled up at them. “I reckon you’d prefer to be alone,” she said.

Peter glanced at Julie, and then protested. “No,” he said; “do come on,” and Julie rewarded him with a smile.

So they set out together. On the front the wind was higher, lashing the waves, and the moonlight shone fitfully on the distant cliffs, the harbour mouth, and the sea. The two girls clung together, and as Peter walked by Julie she took his arm. Conversation was difficult as they battled their way along the promenade. There was hardly a soul about, and Peter felt the night to fit his mood.

They went up once and down again, and at the Casino grounds Teanie stopped them. “’Nough,” she said; “I’m for home and bed. You two dears can finish up without me.”

“Oh, we must see you home,” said Peter.

The doctor laughed. “Think I shall get stolen?” she demanded. “Someone would have to get up pretty early for that. No, padre, I’m past the need of being escorted, thanks. Good-night. Be good, Julie. We’ll meet again sometime, I hope. If not, keep smiling. Cheerio.”

She waved her hand and was gone in the night. “If there was ever a plucky, unselfish, rattling good woman, there she goes,” said Julie. “I’ve known her sit up night after night with wounded men when she was working like a horse all day. I’ve known her to help a drunken Tommy into a cab and get him home, and quiet his wife into the bargain. I saw her once walk off out of the Monico with a boy of a subaltern, who didn’t know what he was doing, and take him to her own flat, and put him to bed, and get him on to the leave-train in time in the morning. She’d give away her last penny, and you wouldn’t know she’d done it. And yet she’s not the sort of woman you’d choose to run a mother’s meeting, would you, Solomon?”

“Sure thing I wouldn’t,” said Peter, “not in my old parish, but I’m not so sure I wouldn’t in my new one.”

“What’s your new one?” asked Julie curiously.

“Oh, it hasn’t a name,” said Peter, “but it’s pretty big. Something after the style of John Wesley’s parish, I reckon. And I’m gradually getting it sized up.”

“Where do I come in, Solomon?” demanded Julie.

They were passing by the big Calvary at the harbour gates, and there was a light there. He stopped and turned so that the light fell on her. She looked up at him, and so they stood a minute. He could hear the lash of the waves, and the wind drumming in the rigging of the flagstaff near them. Then, deliberately, he bent down, and kissed her on the lips. “I don’t know, Julie,” he said, “but I believe you have the biggest part, somehow.”