cool in his life. His thoughts raced, but
steadily, as if he had dived into cold, clear water. He smiled again,
unhesitatingly, but sadly. "Dear," he said deliberately, "listen to me. I
have cheated you by coming here to-day, though you shan't suffer for it.
I did not want anything, and I don't now. But I'm glad I've come, even
though you do not understand. I don't want to do a bit what my friend is
doing. I don't know why, but I don't. I'm engaged to a girl in England,
but it's not because of that. I'm a chaplain too--a cure, you know--in
the English Army; but it's not because of that."

"Protestant?" demanded the girl on the bed.

He nodded. "Ah, well," she said, "the Protestant ministers have wives.
They are men; it is different with priests. If your fiancee is wise, she
wouldn't mind if you love me a little. She is in England; I am here--is
it not so? You love me now; again, perhaps, once or twice. Then it is
finished. You do not tell your fiancee and she does not know. It is
no matter. Come on, cherie!"

She held out her hands and threw her head back on the pillow.

Peter smiled again. "You do not understand," he said. "And nor do I, but
I must be different from some men. I do not want to."

"Ah, well," she exclaimed brightly, sitting up, "another time! Give me my
dress, monsieur le cure."

He got up and handed it to her. "Tell me," he said, "do you like this
sort of life?"

She shrugged her white shoulders indifferently. "Sometimes," she
said--"sometimes not. There are good boys and bad boys. Some are rough,
cruel, mean; some are kind, and remember that it costs much to live
these days, and one must dress nicely. See," she said deliberately,
showing him, "it is lace, fine lace; I pay fifty francs in Paris!"

"I will give you that," said Peter, and he placed the note on the bed.

She stared at it and at him. "Oh, I love you!" she cried. "You are kind!
Ah, now, if I could but love you always!"

"Always?" he demanded.

"Yes, always, always, while you are here, in Le Havre. I would have no
other boy but you. Ah, if you would! You do not know how one tires of the
music-hall, the drinks, the smiles! I would do just all you please--be
gay, be solemn, talk, be silent, just as you please! Oh, if you would!"

Half in and half out of her dress, she stood there, pleading. Peter
looked closely at the little face with its rouge and powder.

"You hate that!" she exclaimed, with quick intuition. "See, it is gone. I