Across the water Peter’s affairs were speeding up.  If Hilda could have seen him that night she would probably have wept without difficulty, but for a much more superficial reason than the reason why she could not weep in London.  And it came about in this way.

On the morning after the dinner Peter was moody, and declared lie would not go down to the office, but would take a novel out to the canal.  He was in half a mind to go up and call at the hospital, but something held him back.  Reflection showed him how near he had been to the fatal kiss the night before, and he did not wish, or, with the morning, he thought he did not wish, to see Julie so soon again.  So he got his novel and went out to the canal, finding a place where last year’s leaves still lay thick, and one could lie at ease and read.  We do these things all our days, and never learn the lesson.

Half-way through the morning he looked up to see Langton striding along towards him.  He was walking quickly, with the air of one who brings news, and he delivered his message as soon as they were within earshot of each other.  “Good news, Graham,” he called out.  “This tomfoolery is over.  They’ve heard from H.Q. that the whole stunt is postponed, and we’ve all to go back to our bases.  Isn’t it like ’em?” he demanded, as he came up.  “Old Jackson in the office is swearing like blazes.  He’s had all his maps made and plans drawn up, etcetera and etcetera, and now they’re so much waste-paper.  Jolly fortunate, any road.”  He sat down and got out a pipe.

Peter shut his book.  “I’m glad,” he said.  “I’m sick of foolin’ round here.  Not but what it isn’t a decent enough place, but I prefer the other.  There’s more doing.  When do we go?”

“To-morrow.  They’re getting our movement orders, yours to Havre, mine to Rouen.  I put in a spoke for you, to get one via Rouen, but I don’t know if you will.  It’s a vile journey otherwise.”

“By Jove!” cried Peter.  “I’ve an idea!  Miss Gamelyn’s troop of motor-buses goes back to Havre to-morrow empty.  Why shouldn’t I travel on them?  Think I could work it?”

Langton puffed solemnly.  “Sure, I should think,” he said, “being a padre, anyway.”

“What had I best do?”

“Oh, I should go and see Jackson and get him to ’phone the hospital for you—­that is, if you really want to go that way.”

“It’s far better than that vile train,” said Peter.  “Besides, one can see the country, which I love.  And I’ve never been in Dieppe, and they’re to go through there and pick up some casualties.”

“Just so,” said Langton, still smoking.

“Well,” said Peter, “reckon I’ll go and see about it.  Jackson’s a decent old stick, but I’d best do it before he tackles the R.T.O.  Coming?”

“No,” said Langton.  “Leave that novel, and come back for me.  You won’t be long.”

“Right-o,” said Peter, and set off.

It was easily done.  Jackson had no objections, and rang up the hospital while Peter waited.  Oh yes, certainly they could do it.  What was the name?  Captain.  Graham, C.F. certainly.  He must be at the hospital early—­eight-thirty the next morning.  That all right?  Thank you.