“I didn’t know you knew her,” he said.

“You never have time to talk of other people when you’re together, I suppose,” she retorted.  “Well, I’ve no doubt you make the most of your opportunities, and you’re very wise.  But to-night you’ve got to behave, more or less—­at least, till after the coffee.  Otherwise all our preparations will be wasted—­won’t they, Peter?”

After tea they set off together for the tram-car that ran into town.  It was Julie who had decided this.  She said she liked to see the people, and the cars were so perfectly absurd, which was true.  Also, that it would be too early to enjoy taxis, the which was very like her.  So they walked in a body to the terminus, where a crowd of Tommies and French workmen and factory girls were waiting.  The night was cloudy and a little damp, but it had the effect of adding mystery to the otherwise ugly street, and to the great ships under repair in the dockyards close by.  The lights of the tram appeared at length round the corner, an engine-car and two trailers.  There was a bolt for them.  They were packed on the steps, and the men had to use elbows freely to get the whole party in, but the soldiers and the workmen were in excellent humour, and the French girls openly admiring of Julie.  In the result, then, they were all hunched up in the end of a “first” compartment, and Peter found himself with his back to the glass door, Julie on his right, Elsie on his left.

“Every rib I have is broken,” said the former.

“The natural or the artificial?” demanded Elsie.  “Personally, I think I broke a few of other people’s.”

They started, and the rattling of the ramshackle cars stopped conversation.  Julie drew Peter’s attention to a little scene on the platform outside, and he looked through the glass to see a big French linesman with his girl.  The man had got her into a corner, and then, coolly putting his arms out on either side to the hand-rail and to the knob of their door, he was facing his amorata, indifferent to the world.  Peter looked at the girl’s coarse face.  She was a factory hand, bareheaded, and her sleeves were rolled up at her elbows.  For all that, she was neat, as a Frenchwoman invariably is.  The girl caught his gaze, and smiled.  The linesman followed the direction of her eyes and glanced friendly at Peter too.  Then he saw Julie.  A look of admiration came over his face, and he put one hand comically to his heart.  The girl slapped it in a pretended fury, and Julie doubled up with laughter in her corner.  Peter bent over her. “’Everybody’s doing it, doing it, doing it,’” he quoted merrily.

The tram stopped, in the square before the Hotel de Ville.  There was a great air of festivity and bustle about as they stepped out, for the New Year is a great time in France.  Lights twinkled in the misty dark; taxis sprinted across the open spaces; and people greeted each other gaily by the brightly-lit shops.  Somehow or another the whole thing went to Peter’s head like wine.  The world was good and merry, he thought exultantly, and he, after all, a citizen of it.  He caught Julie’s arm, “Come on,” he called to the others.  “I know the way,” And to her:  “Isn’t it topping?  Do you feel gloriously exhilarated?  I don’t know why, Julie, but I could do anything to-night.”