rry, and Mackay,
who called the W.A.A.C. waitress by her Christian name, was plainly
getting over-excited. Peter's friend was obviously a little scornful.
"You'll meet a lot of fools here, padre," he said, "old and young. The
other day I was having tea here when two old buffers came in--dug-outs,
shoved into some job or another--and they sat down at the table next
mine. I couldn't help hearing what they said. The older and fatter, a
Colonel, looked out of window, and remarked ponderously:

"'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 o