A girl passing, smiled at him, and he smiled back.  She came and sat down.  He looked bored, she told him, which was a thing one should not be in Paris, and she offered to assist him to get rid of the plague.

“What do you suggest?” he demanded.

She shrugged her shoulders—­anything that he pleased.

“But I don’t know what I want,” he objected.

“Ah, well, I have a flat near,” she said—­“a charming flat.  We need not be bored there.”

Peter demurred.  He had to catch the midnight train.  She made a little gesture; there was plenty of time.

He regarded her attentively.  “See, mademoiselle,” he said, “I do not want that.  But I am alone and I want company.  Will you not stroll about Paris with me for an hour or two, and talk?”

She smiled.  Monsieur was unreasonable.  She had her time to consider; she could not waste it.

Peter took his case from his pocket and selected a note, folded it, and handed it to her, without a word.  She slipped it into her bag.  “Give me a cigarette,” she said.  “Let us have one little glass here, and then we will go on to an ’otel I know, and hear the band and see the dresses, and talk—­is it not so?”

He could not have found a better companion.  In the great lounge, later on, leaning back by his side, she chatted shrewdly and with merriment.  She described dresses and laughed at his ignorance.  She acclaimed certain pieces, and showed a real knowledge of music.  She told him of life in Paris when the Hun had all but knocked at the gates, of the gaiety of relief, of things big and little, of the flowers in the Bois in the spring.  He said little, but enjoyed himself.  Much later she went with him to the station, and they stood outside to say good-bye.

“Well, little girl,” he said, “you have given me a good evening, and I am very grateful.  But I do not even know your name.  Tell it me, that I may remember.”

“Mariette,” she said.  “And will monsieur not take my card?  He may be in Paris again.  He is tres agreable; I should like much to content him.  One meets many, but there are few one would care to see again.”

Peter smiled sadly.  For the first time a wistful note had crept into her voice.  He thought of others like her that he knew, and he spoke very tenderly.  “No, Mariette,” he said.  “If I came back I might spoil a memory.  Good-bye.  God bless you!” and he held out his hand.  She hesitated a second.  Then she turned back to the taxi.

“Where would you like to go?” he demanded.

She leaned out and glanced up at the clock.  “L’Avenue de l’Opera,” she said, “s’il vous plait.”

The man thrust in the clutch with his foot, and Mariette was lost to Peter for ever in the multitude.

In Boulogne he heard that he was late for the first boat, but caught the second easily.  Remembering Donovan’s advice, he got his ticket for the Pullman at once, and was soon rolling luxuriously to town.  The station was bustling as it had done what seemed to him an age before, but he stepped out with the feeling that he was no longer a fresher in the world’s or any other university.  Declining assistance, he walked over to the Grosvenor and engaged a room, dined, and then strolled out into Victoria Street.