ut a word. She slipped it into her bag. "Give me a
cigarette," she said. "Let us have one little glass here, and then we
will go on to an 'otel I know, and hear the band and see the dresses, and
talk--is it not so?"

He could not have found a better companion. In the great lounge, later
on, leaning back by his side, she chatted shrewdly and with merriment.
She described dresses and laughed at his ignorance. She acclaimed certain
pieces, and showed a real knowledge of music. She told him of life in
Paris when the Hun had all but knocked at the gates, of the gaiety of
relief, of things big and little, of the flowers in the Bois in the
spring. He said little, but enjoyed himself. Much later she went with him
to the station, and they stood outside to say good-bye.

"Well, little girl," he said, "you have given me a good evening, and I am
very grateful. But I do not even know your name. Tell it me, that I may
remember."

"Mariette," she said. "And will monsieur not take my card? He may be in
Paris again. He is tres agreable; I should like much to content him. One
meets many, but there are few one would care to see again."

Peter smiled sadly. For the first time a wistful note had crept into her
voice. He thought of others like her that he knew, and he spoke very
tenderly. "No, Mariette," he said. "If I came back I might spoil a
memory. Good-bye. God bless you!" and he held out his hand. She hesitated
a second. Then she turned back to the taxi.

"Where would you like to go?" he demanded.

She leaned out and glanced up at the clock. "L'Avenue de l'Opera," she
said, "s'il vous plait."

The man thrust in the clutch with his foot, and Mariette was lost to
Peter for ever in the multitude.

In Boulogne he heard that he was late for the first boat, but caught the
second easily. Remembering Donovan's advice, he got his ticket for the
Pullman at once, and was soon rolling luxuriously to town. The station
was bustling as it had done what seemed to him an age before, but he
stepped out with the feeling that he was no longer a fresher in the
world's or any other university. Declining assistance, he walked over to
the Grosvenor and engaged a room, dined, and then strolled out into
Victoria Street.

It was all so familiar and it was all so different. He stood aloof and
looked at himself, and played with the thought. It was incredible that he
was the Peter Graham of less than a year before, and that he walked where
he had walked