The officers’ club in Rouen was not monstrously attractive, but they got a good wash in a little room that looked out over a tangle of picturesque roofs, and finally some excellent coffee and bacon and eggs.

Jenks lit a cigarette and handed one to Peter.  “Better leave your traps,” he said.  “I’ll go up with you; I’ve nothing to do.”

Outside the street was filling with the morning traffic, and the two walked up the slight hill to the accompaniment of a running fire of comments and explanations from Jenks, “That’s Cox’s—­useful place for the first half of a month, but not much use to me, anyway, for the second....  You ought to go to I that shop and buy picture post-cards, padre; there’s a topping girl who sells ’em....  Rue de la Grosse Horloge—­you can see the clock hanging over the road.  The street runs up to the cathedral:  rather jolly sometimes, but nothing doing now....  What’s that?  I don’t know.  Yes, I do, Palais de Justice or something of that sort.  Pretty old, I believe....  In those gardens is the picture gallery; not been in myself, but I believe they’ve got some good stuff....  That’s your show, over there.  Don’t be long; I’ll hang about.”

Peter crossed the street, and, following directions ascended some wooden stairs.  A door round the corner at the top was inscribed “A.C.G. (C. of E.),” and he went up to it.  There he cogitated:  ought one to knock, or, being in uniform, walk straight in?  He could not think of any reason why one should not knock being in uniform, so he knocked.

“Come in,” said a voice.

He opened the door and entered.  At a desk before him sat a rather elderly man, clean-shaven, who eyed him keenly.  On his left, with his back to him, was a man in uniform pattering away busily on a typewriter, and, for the rest, the room contained a few chairs, a coloured print of the Light of the World over the fireplace, and a torn map.  Peter again hesitated.  He wondered what was the rank of the officer in the chair, and if he ought to salute.  While he hesitated, the other said:  “Good-morning.  What can I do for you?”

Peter, horribly nervous, made a half-effort at saluting, and stepped forward.  “My name’s Graham, sir,” he said.  “I’ve just come over, and was told in the C.G.’s office in London to report to Colonel Chichester, A.C.G., at Rouen.”

The other put him at his ease at once.  He rose and held a hand out over the littered desk.  “How do you do, Mr. Graham?” he said.  “We were expecting you.  I am the A.C.G. here, and we’ve plenty for you to do.  Take a seat, won’t you?  I believe I once heard you preach at my brother’s place down in Suffolk.  You were at St. Thomas’s, weren’t you, down by the river?”

Peter warmed to the welcome.  It was strangely familiar, after the past twenty-four hours, to hear himself called “Mr.” and, despite the uniforms and the surroundings, he felt he might be in the presence of a vicar in England.  Some of his old confidence began to return.  He replied freely to the questions.