With a gesture of abandon, she threw herself on the bed, propping her cheek on her hand and staring at him.  He sat down where Pennell had sat, but made no attempt to touch her, leaning, instead, back and away against the iron bed-post.  She pulled up her knees, flung her arms back, and laughed.  “And now, monsieur?” she said.

Peter had never felt so cool in his life.  His thoughts raced, but steadily, as if he had dived into cold, clear water.  He smiled again, unhesitatingly, but sadly.  “Dear,” he said deliberately, “listen to me.  I have cheated you by coming here to-day, though you shan’t suffer for it.  I did not want anything, and I don’t now.  But I’m glad I’ve come, even though you do not understand.  I don’t want to do a bit what my friend is doing.  I don’t know why, but I don’t.  I’m engaged to a girl in England, but it’s not because of that.  I’m a chaplain too—­a cure, you know—­in the English Army; but it’s not because of that.”

“Protestant?” demanded the girl on the bed.

He nodded.  “Ah, well,” she said, “the Protestant ministers have wives.  They are men; it is different with priests.  If your fiancee is wise, she wouldn’t mind if you love me a little.  She is in England; I am here—­is it not so?  You love me now; again, perhaps, once or twice.  Then it is finished.  You do not tell your fiancee and she does not know.  It is no matter.  Come on, cherie!”

She held out her hands and threw her head back on the pillow.

Peter smiled again.  “You do not understand,” he said.  “And nor do I, but I must be different from some men.  I do not want to.”

“Ah, well,” she exclaimed brightly, sitting up, “another time!  Give me my dress, monsieur le cure.”

He got up and handed it to her.  “Tell me,” he said, “do you like this sort of life?”

She shrugged her white shoulders indifferently.  “Sometimes,” she said—­“sometimes not.  There are good boys and bad boys.  Some are rough, cruel, mean; some are kind, and remember that it costs much to live these days, and one must dress nicely.  See,” she said deliberately, showing him, “it is lace, fine lace; I pay fifty francs in Paris!”

“I will give you that,” said Peter, and he placed the note on the bed.

She stared at it and at him.  “Oh, I love you!” she cried.  “You are kind!  Ah, now, if I could but love you always!”

“Always?” he demanded.

“Yes, always, always, while you are here, in Le Havre.  I would have no other boy but you.  Ah, if you would!  You do not know how one tires of the music-hall, the drinks, the smiles!  I would do just all you please—­be gay, be solemn, talk, be silent, just as you please!  Oh, if you would!”

Half in and half out of her dress, she stood there, pleading.  Peter looked closely at the little face with its rouge and powder.

“You hate that!” she exclaimed, with quick intuition.  “See, it is gone.  I use it no more, only a leetle, leetle, for the night.”  And she ran across to the basin, dipped a little sponge in water, passed it over her face, and turned to him triumphantly.