She pulled her nightdress open considerably more than the average evening dress is cut away and put two or three of the blooms on her white bosom, putting her head on one side to see the result.  “Oui,” she exclaimed, “je suis exquise!  To-night I ’ave so many boys I do not know what to do!  But I forget:  I cannot go.  Je suis malade, tres malade.  You knew?  You are angry with me—­is it not so?”

He laughed; there was nothing else to do.  “No,” he said; “why should I be?  But I am very sorry.”

She shrugged her shoulders.  “It is nothing,” she said.  “C’est la guerre for me.  I shall not be long, and when I come out you will come to see me again, will you not?  And bring me more flowers?  And you shall not let me ’ave the danger any more, and if I do wrong you shall smack me ’ard.  Per’aps you will like that.  In the books men like it much.  Would you like to whip me?” she demanded, her eyes sparkling as she threw herself over in the bed and looked up at him.

Peter got up and moved away to the window.  “No,” he said shortly, staring out.  He had a sensation of physical nausea, and it was as much as he could do to restrain himself.  He realised, suddenly, that he was in the presence of the world, the flesh, and the devil’s final handiwork.  Only his new knowledge kept him quiet.  Even she might be little to blame.  He remembered all that she had said to him before, and suddenly his disgust was turned into overwhelming pity.  This child before him—­for she was little more than a child—­had bottomed degradation.  For the temporary protection and favour of a man that she guessed to be kind there was nothing in earth or in hell that she would not do.  And in her already were the seeds of the disease that was all but certain to slay her.

He turned again to the bed, and knelt beside it.  “Poor little girl,” he said, and lightly brushed her hair.  He certainly never expected the result.

She pushed him from her.  “Oh, go, go!” she cried.  “Quick go!  You pretend, but you do not love me.  Why you give me money, the flowers, if you do not want me?  Go quick.  Come never to see me again!”

Peter did the only thing he could do; he went.  “Good-bye,” he said cheerfully at the door.  “I hope you will be better soon.  I didn’t mean to be a beast to you.  Give the flowers to Lucienne if you don’t want them; she will be able to wear them to-night.  Cheerio.  Good-bye-ee!”

“Good-bye-ee!” she echoed after him.  And he closed the door on her life.

In front of the Hotel de Ville he met Arnold, returning from the club, and the two men walked off together.  In a moment of impulse he related the whole story to him.  “Now,” he said, “what do you make of all that?”

Arnold was very moved.  It was not his way to say much, but he walked on silently for a long time.  Then he said:  “The Potter makes many vessels, but never one needlessly.  I hold on to that.  And He can remake the broken clay.”