menced. Peter's was by the window,
and he glanced out to see the sunlit street below, the wide sparkling
harbour, and right opposite the hospital he had now visited several times
and his own camp near it. There was the new green of spring shoots in the
window-boxes, snowy linen on the table, a cheerful hum of conversation
about him, and an oak-panelled wall behind that had seen the Revolution.

"Pennell," he said, "you're a marvel. The place is perfect."

By the time they had finished Peter was feeling warmed and friendly, the
Australians had been joined to their company, and the four spent an idle
afternoon cheerfully enough. There was nothing in strolling through the
busy streets, joking a little over very French picture post-cards,
quizzing the passing girls, standing in a queue at Cox's, and finally
drawing a fiver in mixed French notes, or in wandering through a huge
shop of many departments to buy some toilet necessities. But it was good
fun. There was a comradeship, a youthfulness, carelessness, about it all
that gripped Peter. He let himself go, and when he did so he was a good
companion.

One little incident in the Grand Magasin completed his abandonment to the
day and the hour. They were ostensibly buying a shaving-stick, but at the
moment were cheerily wandering through the department devoted to
_lingerie_. The attendant girls, entirely at ease, were trying to
persuade the taller of the two Australians, whom his friend addressed
as "Alex," to buy a flimsy lace nightdress "for his fiancee," readily
pointing out that he would find no difficulty in getting rid of it
elsewhere if he had not got such a desirable possession, when Peter heard
an exclamation behind him.

"Hullo!" said a girl's voice; "fancy finding you here!" He turned quickly
and blushed. Julie laughed merrily.

"Caught out," she said, "Tell me what you're buying, and for whom. A
blouse, a camisole, or worse?"

"I'm not buying," said Peter, recovering his ease. "We're just strolling
round, and that girl insists that my friend the Australian yonder should
buy a nightie for his fiancee. He says he hasn't one, so she is
persuading him that he can easily pick one up. What do you think?"

She glanced over at the little group. "Easier than some people I know,
I should think," she said, smiling, taking in his six feet of bronzed
manhood. "But it's no use your buying it. I wear pyjamas, silk, and I
prefer Venns'."

"I'll remember," said Peter. "By