“Am I?” she queried, looking at him a little strangely.

Peter did not notice; he was bent on pursuing his argument.  “Yes, you are,” he said.  “When you’re in the grip of real vital things—­nature naked and unashamed—­you have all you want.  You don’t stop to think of to-morrow.  You live.  But I, I feel that there is something round the corner all the time.  I feel as if there must be something bigger than just that.  I’d love your forest and your range and your natives, I think, but only because one is nearer something else with them than here.  I don’t know how to put it, but when you think of those things you feel full, and I still feel empty.”

“Peter,” said Julie softly, “do you remember Caudebec?”

He looked up at her then.  “I shall never forget it, dear,” he said.

“Then you’ll remember our talk in the car?”

He nodded.  “When you talked about marriage and human nature and men, and so on,” he said.

“No, I don’t mean that.  I did talk of those things, and I gave you a little rather bitter philosophy that is more true than you think; but I don’t mean that.  Afterwards, when we spoke about shams and playing.  Do you remember, I hinted that a big thing might come along—­do you remember?”

He nodded again, but he did not speak.

“Well,” she said, “it’s come—­that’s all.”

“Another bottle of Chianti, sir?” queried the padrone at his elbow.

Peter started.  “What?  Oh, yes, please,” he said.  “We can manage another bottle, Julie?  And bring on the dessert now, will you?  Julie, have a cigarette.”

“If we have another bottle you must drink most of it,” she laughed, almost as if they had not been interrupted, but with a little vivid colour in her cheeks.  “Otherwise, my dear, you’ll have to carry me upstairs, which won’t look any too well.  But I want another glass.  Oh, Peter, do look at that woman now!”

Peter looked.  The elderly officer had dined to repletion and drank well too.  The woman had roused herself; she was plainly urging him to come on out; and as Peter glanced over, she made an all but imperceptible sign to a waiter, who bustled forward with the man’s cap and stick.  He took them stupidly, and the woman helped him up, but not too noticeably.  Together they made for the door, which the waiter held wide open.  The woman tipped him, and he bowed.  The door closed, and the pair disappeared into the street.

“A damned plucky sort,” said Julie; “I don’t care what anyone says.”

“I didn’t think so once, Julie,” said Peter, “but I believe you’re right now.  It’s a topsy-turvy world, little girl, and one never knows where one is in it.”

“Men often don’t,” said Julie, “but women make fewer mistakes.  Come, Peter, let’s get back.  I want the walk, and I want that cosy little room.”

He drained his glass and got up.  Suddenly the thought of the physical Julie ran through him like fire.  “Rather!” he said gaily.  “So do I, little girl.”