“They had some of the first guns in the castle, which was held for Henry of Navarre,” explained Peter, “and they did great execution.  I suppose they fired one stone shot in about every five minutes, and killed a man about every half-hour.  The enemy were more frightened than hurt, I should think.  Anyway, Henry won.”

“Wasn’t he the King who thought Paris worth more than a Mass?” she demanded.

“Yes,” said Peter, watching her brown eyes as she stared out over the plain.

“I wonder what he thinks now,” she said.

He laughed.  “You’re likely to wonder,” he said.

“Funny old days,” said Julie.  “I suppose there were girls in this castle watching the fight.  I expect they cared more for the one man each half-hour the cannon hit than for either Paris or the Mass.  That’s the way of women, Peter, and a damned silly way it is!  Come on, let’s go.  I’ll get down first, if you please.”

On the short road remaining Peter asked his chauffeur if he knew the Trois Poissons, and, finding that he did, had the direction pointed out.  They ran through the town to the hospital, and Peter handed his cars over.  “I’ll sleep in town,” he said.  “What time ought we to start in the morning?” He was told, and walked away.  Julie had disappeared.

He found the Trois Poissons without difficulty, and made his way to the sitting-room, a queer room opening from the pavement direct on the one side, and from the hall of the hotel on the other.  It had a table down the middle, a weird selection of chairs, and a piano.  A small woman was sitting in a chair reading the Tatler and smoking.  An empty glass stood beside her.

She looked up as he came in, and he noticed R.A.M.C. badges.  “Good-evening,” he said cheerily.

“Good-evening, padre,” she replied, plainly willing to talk.  “Where have you sprung from?”

“Abbeville via Eu in a convoy of Red Cross cars,” he said, “and I feel like a sun-downer.  Won’t you have another with me?”

“Sure thing,” she said, and he ordered a couple from the French maid who came in answer to his ring.  “Do you live here?” he asked.

“For my sins I do,” she said.  “I doctor Waac’s, and I don’t think much of it.  A finer, heartier lot of women I never saw.  Epsom salts is all they want.  A child could do it.”

Peter laughed.  “Well, I don’t see why you should grumble,” he said.

“Don’t you?  Where’s the practice?  This business out here is the best chance for doctors in a lifetime, and I have to strip strapping girls hopelessly and endlessly.”

“You do, do you?” said a voice in the doorway, and there stood Julie.  “Well, at any rate you oughtn’t to talk about it like that to my gentleman friends, especially padres.  How do you do, my dear?”

“Julie, by all that’s holy!  Where have you sprung from?”

She glanced from one to the other.  “From Abbeville via Eu in a convoy of Red Cross cars, I dare bet,” she said.