“So you mean nothing all the time?” he queried.

“Of course,” she said merrily.  “What do you think?”

That jarred Peter a little, so he said nothing and silence fell on them, and at the Hotel de Ville in the city he asked if she would mind finishing alone.

“Not a bit, old thing, if you want to go anywhere,” she said.

He apologised.  “Arnold—­he’s our padre—­is likely to be at the club, and I promised I’d walk home with him,” he lied remorselessly.  “It’s beastly rude, I know, but I thought you’d understand.”

She looked at him, and laughed.  “I believe I do,” she said.

He stopped the car and got out, settling with the man, and glancing up at a clock.  “You’ll be in at nine-forty-five,” he said, “as proper as possible.  And thank you so much for coming.”

“Thank you, Solomon,” she replied.  “It’s been just topping.  Thanks awfully for taking me.  And come in to tea soon, won’t you?” He promised and held out his hand.  She pressed it, and waved out of the window as the car drove off.  And no sooner was it in motion than he cursed himself for a fool.  Yet he knew why he had done as he had, there, in the middle of the town.  He knew that he feared she would kiss him again—­as before.

Not noticing where he went, he set off through the streets, making, unconsciously almost, for the sea, and the dark boulevards that led from the gaily lit centre of the city towards it.  He walked slowly, his mind a chaos of thoughts, and so ran into a curious adventure.

As he passed a side-street he heard a man’s uneven steps on the pavement, a girl’s voice, a curse, and the sound of a fall.  Then followed an exclamation in another woman’s voice, and a quick sentence in French.

Peter hesitated a minute, and then turned down the road to where a small group was faintly visible.  As he reached it, he saw that a couple of street girls were bending over a man who lay sprawling on the ground, and he quickened his steps to a run.  His boots were rubber-soled, and all but noiseless.  “Here, I say,” he said as he came up.  “Let that man alone.  What are you doing?” he added in halting French.  One of the two girls gave a little scream, but the other straightened herself, and Peter perceived that he knew her.  It was Louise, of Travalini’s.

“What are you doing?” he demanded again in English.  “Is he hurt?”

“Non, non, monsieur,” said Louise.  “He is but ‘zig-zag.’  We found him a little way down the street, and he cannot walk easily.  So we help him.  If the gendarme—­how do you call him?—­the red-cap, see him, maybe he will get into trouble.  But now you come.  You will doubtless help him.  Vraiment, he is in luck.  We go now, monsieur.”

Peter bent over the fallen man.  He did not know him, but saw he was a subaltern, though a middle-aged man.  The fellow was very drunk, and did little else than stutter curses in which the name of our Lord was frequent.