“I want to speak to you a minute about Thursday,” he said.  “Can I come in?”

She got up and came round the screens.  “Follow me,” she said, “and don’t make a noise.”

She led him across the ward to the wide verandah, opening the door carefully and leaving it open behind her, and then walked to the balustrade and glanced down.  The hospital ship had gone, and there was no one visible on the wharf.  The stars were hidden, and there was a suggestion of mist on the harbour, through which the distant lights seemed to flicker.

“You’re coming on, Solomon,” she said mockingly.  “Never tell me you’d have dared to call on the hospital to see a nurse by night a few weeks ago!  Suppose matron came round?  There is no dangerous case in my ward.”

“Not among the men, perhaps,” said Peter mischievously.  “But, look here, about Thursday; Donovan can’t go, nor Pennell, and I don’t know anyone else I want to ask.”

“Well, I’ll see if I can raise a man.  One or two of the doctors are fairly decent, or I can get a convalescent out of the officers’ hospital.”

She had the lights behind her, and he could not see her face, but he knew she was laughing at him, and it spurred him on.  “Don’t rag, Julie,” he said, “You know I want you to come alone.”

There was a perceptible pause.  Then:  “I can’t cut Tommy,” she said.

“Not for once?” he urged.  She turned away from him and looked down at the water.  It is curious how there come moments of apprehension in all our lives when we want a thing, but know quite well we are mad to want it.  Julie looked into the future for a few seconds, and saw plainly, but would not believe what she saw.

When she turned back she had her old manner completely.  “You’re a dear old thing,” she said, “and I’ll do it.  But if it gets out that I gadded about for a day with an officer, even though he is a padre, and that we went miles out of town, there’ll be some row, my boy.  Quick now!  I must get back.  What’s the plan?”

“Thanks awfully,” said Peter.  “It will be a rag.  What time can you get off?”

“Oh, after breakfast easily—­say eight-thirty.”

“Right.  Well, take the tram-car to Harfleur—­you know?—­as far as it goes.  I’ll be at the terminus with a car.  What time must you be in?”

“I can get late leave till ten, I think,” she said.

“Good!  That gives us heaps of time.  We’ll lunch and tea in Caudebec, and have some sandwiches for the road home.”

“And if the car breaks down?”

“It won’t,” said Peter.  “You’re lucky in love, aren’t you?”

She did not laugh.  “I don’t know,” she said.  “Good-night.”

And then Peter had walked home, thinking of Hilda.  And he had sat by the sea, and come to the conclusion that he was a rotter, but in the web of Fate and much to be pitied, which is like a man.  And then he had played auction till midnight and lost ten francs, and gone to bed concluding that he was certainly unlucky—­at cards.