“Lucienne!” exclaimed Peter, and looked back at Pennell.

That traitor laughed, and seated himself on the edge of the bed, drawing the other girl to him.  “I’m awfully sorry, Graham,” he said; “but I couldn’t help it.  You wanted to see life, and you’d have shied off if I hadn’t played a game.  I do just know this little girl, and jolly nice she is too.  Give me a kiss, Lulu.”

The girl obeyed, her eyes sparkling.  “It’s not proper before monsieur,” she said. “’E is—­how do you say?—­shocked?”

She seated herself on Pennell’s knee, and, putting an arm round his neck, kissed him again, looking across at Peter mischievously.  “We show ’im French kiss,” she added to Pennell, and pouted out her lips to his.

“Well, now you ’ave come, what do you want?” demanded the girl on the arm of Peter’s chair.  “Sit down,” she said imperiously, patting the seat, “and talk to me.”

Peter laughed more lightly than he felt.  “Well, I want a drink,” he said, at random.  “Pen,” he called across the room, “what about that drink?” The girl by him reached over and touched a bell.  As she did so, Peter saw the curls that clustered on her neck and caught the perfume of her hair.  It was penetrating and peculiar, but not distasteful, and it did all that it was meant to do.  He bent, and kissed the back of her neck, still marvelling at himself.

She straightened herself, smiling.  “That is better.  You aren’t so cold as you pretended, cherie.  Now kiss me properly,” and she held up her face.

Peter kissed her lips.  Before he knew it, a pair of arms were thrown about his neck, and he was being half-suffocated with kisses.  He tore himself away, disgusted and ashamed.

“No!” he cried sharply, but knowing that it was too late.

The girl threw herself back, laughing merrily, “Oh, you are funny!” she said.  “Lucienne, take your boy away; I want to talk to mine.”

Before he could think of a remonstrance, it was done.  Pennell and the other girl got up from the bed where they had been whispering together, and left the room.  “Pennell!” called Peter, too late again, jumping up.  The girl ran round him, pushed the door to, locked it, and dropped the key down the neck of her dress.  “Voila!” she said gaily.

There came a knock on the door.  “Non, non!” she cried in French.  “Take the wine to Mlle. Lucienne; I am busy.”

Peter walked across the room to her.  “Give me the key,” he said, holding out his hand, and changing his tactics.  “Please do.  I won’t go till my friend comes back.  I promise.”

The girl looked at him.  “You promise?  But you will ’ave to find it.”

He smiled and nodded, and she walked deliberately to the bed, undid the front of her costume, and slipped it off.  Bare necked and armed, she turned to him, holding open the front of her chemise.  “Down there,” she said.

It was a strange moment and a strange thing, but a curious courage came back to Peter in that second.  Without hesitation, he put his hand down and sought for the key against her warm body.  He found it, and help it up, smiling.  Then he moved to the door, pushed the key in the keyhole, and turned again to the girl.  “There!” he said simply.