“Some gag!” chuckled Pennell; “but I hope you won’t go on that sort of racket to-night.  It would be a little more serious if we were caught....  Also, these blighted gendarmes would probably start firing, or some other damned thing.”

“They would,” said Peter; “besides, that doesn’t appeal to me now.  I’m getting too old, or else my tastes have become depraved.”

The one-horse cab stopped with a jerk.  “Hop out,” said Peter.  He settled the score, and the two of them entered the hotel and passed through into the private bar.

“What is it to be?” demanded Pennell.

“Cocktails to-day, old son,” said Peter; “I want bucking up.  What do you say to martinis?”

The other agreed, and they moved over to the bar.  A monstrously fat woman stood behind it, like some bloated spider, and a thin, weedy-looking girl assisted her.  A couple of men were already there.  It was too early for official drinks, but the Bretagne knew no law.

They ordered their drinks, and stood there while madame compounded them and put in the cherries.  Another man came in, and Peter recognised the Australian Ferrars, whom he had met before.  He introduced Pennell and called for another martini.

“So you frequent this poison-shop, do you?” said Ferrars.

“Not much,” laughed Peter, “but it’s convenient.”

“It is, and it’s a good sign when a man like you wants a drink.  I’d sooner listen to your sermons any day than some chaps’ I know.”

“Subject barred here,” said Pennell.  “But here’s the very best to you, Graham, for all that.”

“Same here,” said Ferrars, and put down his empty glass.

The talk became general.  There was nothing whatever in it—­mild chaffing, a yarn or two, a guarded description by Peter of his motor drive from Abbeville, and then more drinks.  And so on.  The atmosphere was warm and genial, but Peter wondered inwardly why he liked it, and he did not like it so much that Pennell’s “Well, what about it?  Let’s go on, Graham, shall we?” found him unready.  The two said a general good-bye, promised madame to look in again, and sauntered out.

They crossed the square in front of Travalini’s, lingered at the flower-stalls, refused the girls’ pressure to buy, and strolled on.  “I’m sick of Travalini’s,” said Pennell.  “Don’t let’s go in there.”

“So am I,” said Peter.  “Let’s stroll down towards the sea.”

They turned down a side-street, and stood for a few minutes looking into a picture and book shop.  At that moment quick footsteps sounded on the pavement, and Pennell glanced round.

Two girls passed them, obviously sisters.  They were not flashily dressed exactly, but there was something in their furs and their high-heeled, high-laced boots that told its own story.  “By Jove, that’s a pretty girl!” exclaimed Pennell; “let’s follow them.”

Peter laughed; he was reckless, but not utterly so.  “If you like,” he said.  “I’m on for any rag.  We’ll take them for a drink, but I stop at that, mind, Pen.”