Up on the deck the world was very fair.  The French coast was now clearly visible, and even the houses of the town, huddled together as it seemed, but dominated by a church on the hill.  Behind them, a sister ship containing Tommies ploughed steadily along, serene and graceful in the sunlight, and above an airship of silvery aluminum, bearing the tricoloured circle of the Allies, kept pace with the swift ship without an effort.  Four destroyers were visible, their low, dark shapes ploughing regularly along at stated intervals, and someone said a fifth was out of sight behind.  People were already beginning to take off their life-belts, and the sailors were clearing a place for the gangway.  Peter found that Donovan had known what he was about, for his party would be close to the gangway without moving.  He began to wonder uneasily what would be done on landing, and to hope that Donovan would be going his way.  No one had said a word about it.  He looked round for Jenks’ nurse, but couldn’t see her.

It was jolly entering the port.  The French houses and fishing-boats looked foreign, although one could hardly say why.  On the quay was a big notice:  “All officers to report at once to the M.L.O.”  Farther on was a board bearing the letters “R.T.O.” ...  But Peter hardly liked to ask.

In fact, everything went like clockwork.  He presently found himself in a queue, behind Donovan, of officers who were passing a small window like a ticket office.  Arriving, he handed in papers, and was given them back with a brief “All right.”  Beyond, Donovan had secured a broken-down-looking one-horse cab.  “You’ll be coming to the club, padre?” he asked.  “Chuck in your stuff.  This chap’ll take it down and Bevan with it.  Let’s walk.  It isn’t far.”

Jenks elected to go with his friend the Major, and Donovan and Peter set off over the cobbles.  They joined up with another small group, and for the first time Peter had to give his name as he was introduced.  He forgot the others, as soon as he heard them, and they forgot his.  A big Dublin Fusilier officer with a tiny moustache, that seemed ludicrous in his great face, exchanged a few sentences with him.  They left the quay and crossed a wide space where a bridge debouched towards the railway-station.  Donovan, who was walking ahead, passed on, but the Fusilier suggested to Peter that they might as well see the R.T.O. at once about trains.  Entering the station gates, the now familiar initials appearing on a row of offices before them to the left, Peter’s companion demanded the train to Albert.

“Two-thirty a.m., change at Amiens, sir,” said a clerk in uniform within, and the Fusilier passed on.

“What time is the Rouen train?” asked Peter in his turn, and was told 9.30 p.m.

“You’re in luck, padre,” said the other.  “It’s bally rotten getting in at two-thirty, and probably the beastly thing won’t go till five.  Still, it might be worse.  You can get on board at midnight, and with luck get to sleep.  If I were you, I’d be down here early for yours—­crowded always, it is.  Of course, you’ll dine at the club?”