“Une omelette aux champignons.  Jambon.  Pommes sautes, s’il vous plait.”

Peter recovered himself and smiled.  “Bon jour, mademoiselle,” he said, this time.  In point of fact, he could say very little else.

“Bon jour, monsieur,” said, the girl, and something else that he could not catch, but by this time he had reached the top in time to witness a little ‘business’ there.  A second girl, taller, older, slower, but equally smiling, was taking Pennell’s cap and stick and gloves, making play with her eyes the while.  “Merci, cherie,” he heard his friend say and then, in a totally different voice:  “Ah!  Bon jour Marie.”

A third girl was before them.  In her presence the other two withdrew.  She was tall, plain, shrewd of face, with reddish hair, but she smiled even as the others.  It was little more than a glance that Peter got, for she called an order (at which the first girl again disappeared down the stairs) greeted Pennell, replied to his question that there were two places, and was out of sight again in the room, seemingly all at once.  He too, then, surrendered cap and stick, and followed his companion in.

There were no more than four tables in the little room—­two for six, and two for four or five.  Most were filled, but he and Pennell secured two seats with their backs to the wall opposite a couple of Australian officers who had apparently just commenced.  Peter’s was by the window, and he glanced out to see the sunlit street below, the wide sparkling harbour, and right opposite the hospital he had now visited several times and his own camp near it.  There was the new green of spring shoots in the window-boxes, snowy linen on the table, a cheerful hum of conversation about him, and an oak-panelled wall behind that had seen the Revolution.

“Pennell,” he said, “you’re a marvel.  The place is perfect.”

By the time they had finished Peter was feeling warmed and friendly, the Australians had been joined to their company, and the four spent an idle afternoon cheerfully enough.  There was nothing in strolling through the busy streets, joking a little over very French picture post-cards, quizzing the passing girls, standing in a queue at Cox’s, and finally drawing a fiver in mixed French notes, or in wandering through a huge shop of many departments to buy some toilet necessities.  But it was good fun.  There was a comradeship, a youthfulness, carelessness, about it all that gripped Peter.  He let himself go, and when he did so he was a good companion.

One little incident in the Grand Magasin completed his abandonment to the day and the hour.  They were ostensibly buying a shaving-stick, but at the moment were cheerily wandering through the department devoted to lingerie.  The attendant girls, entirely at ease, were trying to persuade the taller of the two Australians, whom his friend addressed as “Alex,” to buy a flimsy lace nightdress “for his fiancee,” readily pointing out that he would find no difficulty in getting rid of it elsewhere if he had not got such a desirable possession, when Peter heard an exclamation behind him.