Tommy sighed audibly.  “She’s off again,” she said.

“Thank God, here’s the hospital!  Good-night, Captain Graham.  You mustn’t cross the Rubicon to-night.”

“You oughtn’t to swear before him,” said Julie in mock severity.  “And what in the world is the Rubicon?”

“Materially, to-night, it’s the railway-line between his camp and the hospital,” said Tommy Raynard.  “What else it is I’ll leave him to decide.”

She held out her hand, and Peter saw a quizzical look on her face.  He turned rather hopelessly to Julie.  “I say,” he said, “didn’t you know it was my afternoon at the hospital?”

“Yes,” said Julie, “and I knew you didn’t come.  At least, I couldn’t see you in any of the wards.”

“Oh,” he exclaimed, “I thought you’d been out all the afternoon.  I’m sorry.  I am a damned fool, Julie!”

She laughed in the darkness.  “I’ve known worse, Peter,” she said, and was gone.

* * * * *

Next day Julie was in her most provocative of moods.  Peter, eminently respectable in his best tunic, waited ten minutes for her outside the Nouvelles Galleries, and, like most men in his condition, considered that she was never coming, and that he was the cynosure of neighbouring eyes.  When she did come, she was not apparently aware that she was late.  She ran her eyes over him, and gave a pretended gasp of surprise.  “You’re looking wonderful, Padre Graham,” she said.  “Really, you’re hard to live up to.  I never know what to expect or how to behave.  Those black buttons terrorise me.  Come on.”

She insisted on getting her ribbon first, and turned over everything there was to be seen at that counter.  The French girl who served them was highly amused.

“Isn’t that chic?” Julie demanded of Peter, holding up a lacy camisole and deliberately putting it to her shoulders.  “Wouldn’t you love to see me in it?”

“I would,” he said, without the ghost of a smile.

“Well, you never will, of course,” she said.  “I shall never marry or be given in marriage, and in any case, in that uniform, you’ve nothing whatever to hope for....  Yes, I’ll take that ribbon, thank you, ma’m’selle.  Peter, I suppose you can’t carry it for me.  Your pocket?  Not a bad idea; but let me put it in.”

Peter stood while she undid his breast-pocket and stuffed it inside.

“Anything more?” demanded the French saleswoman interrogatively.

“Not to-day, merci,” said Julie.  “You see, Peter, you couldn’t carry undies for me, even in your pocket; it wouldn’t be respectable. Do come on.  You will keep us here the entire day.”

They passed the smoking department, and she stopped suddenly.  “Peter,” she said, “I’m going to give you a pipe.  Those chocolates you gave me at Christmas were too delicious for anything.  What sort do you like?  A briar?  Let me see if it blows nicely.”  She put it to her lips.  “I swear I shall start a pipe soon, in my old age.  By the way, I don’t believe you have any idea how old I am—­have you, Peter?  Guess.”