“‘By the way, wasn’t Joan of Arc born about here?’

“‘No,’ said the second; ’down in Alsace-Lorraine, I believe.  She was burnt here, and they threw her ashes into the Grand Pont.’”

Peter laughed silently, and the other smiled at him.  “Fact,” he said.  “That’s one type of ass, and the second is (dropping his voice) your friend here and his like, if you don’t mind my saying so.  Look at him with that girl now.  Somebody’ll spot it, and they’ll keep an eye on him.  Next time he meets her on the sly he’ll be caught out, and be up for it.  Damned silly fool, I think!  The bally girl’s only a waitress from Lyons.”

Peter glanced at Mackay.  He was leaning back holding the menu, which she, with covert glances at the cashier’s desk, was trying to take away from him.  “Isobel,” he said, “I say, come here—­no, I really want to see it—­tell me, when do you get out next?”

“We don’t get no leave worth talking of, you know,” she said.  “Besides, you don’t mean it.  You can’t talk to me outside.  Oh, shut up!  I must go.  They’ll see us,” and she darted away.

“Damned pretty girl, eh?” said Mackay contentedly.  “Don’t mind me, padre.  It’s only a bit of a joke.  Come on, let’s clear out.”

The four went down the stairs together and stood in a little group at the entrance-door.  “Where you for now, Mac?” asked the second officer, a subaltern of the West Hampshires.

“Don’t know, old sport.  I’m with the padre.  What you for, padre?”

“I should think we had better be getting back,” said Peter, glancing at the watch on his wrist.  “We’ve a long way to go.”

“Oh, hang it all, not yet!  It’s a topping evenin’.  Let’s stroll up the street.”

Peter glanced at the Labour Corps Captain, who nodded, and they two turned off together.  “There’s not much to do,” he said.  “One gets sick of cinemas, and the music-hall is worse, except when one is really warmed up for a razzle-dazzle.  I don’t wonder these chaps go after wine and women more than they ought.  After all, most of them are just loose from home.  You must make allowances, padre.  It’s human nature, you know.”

Peter nodded abstractedly.  It was the second time he had heard that.  “It’s all so jolly different from what I expected,” he said meditatively.

“I know,” said the other.  “Not much danger or poverty or suffering here, seemingly.  But you never can tell.  Look at those girls:  I bet you would probably sum them up altogether wrongly if you tried.”

Peter glanced at a couple of French women who were passing.  The pair were looking at them, and in the light of a brilliantly lit cinema they showed up clearly.  The paint was laid on shamelessly; their costumes, made in one piece, were edged with fur and very gay.  Each carried a handbag and one a tasselled stick.  “Good-night, cherie,” said one, as they passed.

Peter gave a little shudder.  “How ghastly!” he said.  “How can anyone speak to them?  Are there many like that about?” He glanced back again:  “Why, good heavens,” he cried, “one’s Marie!”