uburbs of Paris and swung down the Champs Elysees she was
in a holiday humour. The lights were twinkling in the blue January
dusk, and the warm breath of the city came to greet us. I knew little
of the place, for I had visited it once only on a four days' Paris
leave, but it had seemed to me then the most habitable of cities, and
now, coming from the battle-field with Mary by my side, it was like the
happy ending of a dream.

I left her at her cousin's house near the Rue St Honore, and deposited
myself, according to instructions, at the Hotel Louis Quinze. There I
wallowed in a hot bath, and got into the civilian clothes which had
been sent on from London. They made me feel that I had taken leave of
my division for good and all this time. Blenkiron had a private room,
where we were to dine; and a more wonderful litter of books and cigar
boxes I have never seen, for he hadn't a notion of tidiness. I could
hear him grunting at his toilet in the adjacent bedroom, and I noticed
that the table was laid for three. I went downstairs to get a paper,
and on the way ran into Launcelot Wake.

He was no longer a private in a Labour Battalion. Evening clothes
showed beneath his overcoat. 'Hullo, Wake, are you in this push too?'

'I suppose so,' he said, and his manner was not cordial. 'Anyhow I was
ordered down here. My business is to do as I am told.'

'Coming to dine?' I asked.

'No. I'm dining with some friends at the Crillon.'

Then he looked me in the face, and his eyes were hot as I first
remembered them. 'I hear I've to congratulate you, Hannay,' and he held
out a limp hand.

I never felt more antagonism in a human being.

'You don't like it?' I said, for I guessed what he meant.

'How on earth can I like it?' he cried angrily. 'Good Lord, man, you'll
murder her soul. You an ordinary, stupid, successful fellow and
she--she's the most precious thing God ever made. You can never
understand a fraction of her preciousness, but you'll clip her wings
all right. She can never fly now ...'

He poured out this hysterical stuff to me at the foot of the staircase
within hearing of an elderly French widow with a poodle. I had no
impulse to be angry, for I was far too happy.

'Don't, Wake,' I said. 'We're all too close together to quarrel. I'm
not fit to black Mary's shoes. You can't put me too low or her too
high. But I've at least the sense to know it. You couldn't want me to
be humbler than I felt.'

He shrugged his shou