“You don’t mean that,” he said, distressed.

She laughed again merrily, and slipped her hand into his under the rug.  “Peter,” she said—­“there, am I not good?  You aren’t made to worry about these things.  I don’t know that anyone is.  We can’t help ourselves, and the best thing is to take our pleasures when we can find them.  I suppose you’ll be shocked at me, but I’m not going to pretend.  I wasn’t built that way.  If this were a closed car I’d give you a kiss.”

“I don’t want that sort of a kiss,” he said.  “That was what you gave me the other night.  I want....”

“You don’t know what you want, my dear, though you think you do.  You shouldn’t be so serious.  I’m sure I kiss very nicely—­plenty of men think so? anyway, and if there is nothing in that sort of kiss, why not kiss?  Is there a Commandment against it?  I suppose our grandmothers thought so, but we don’t.  Besides, I’ve been east of Suez, where there ain’t no ten Commandments.  There’s only one real rule left in life for most of us, Peter, and that’s this:  ‘Be a good pal, and don’t worry.’”

Peter sighed.  “You and I were turned out differently, Julie,” he said.  “But I like you awfully.  You attract me so much that I don’t know how to express it.  There’s nothing mean about you, and nothing sham.  And I admire your pluck beyond words.  It seems to me that you’ve looked life in the face and laughed.  Anybody can laugh at death, but very few of us at life.  I think I’m terrified of it.  And that’s the awful part about it all, for I ought to know the secret, and I don’t.  I feel an absolute hypocrite at times—­when I take a service, for example.  I talk about things I don’t understand in the least, even about God, and I begin to think I know nothing about Him....”  He broke off, utterly miserable.

“Poor old boy,” she said softly; “is it as bad as that?”

He turned to her fiercely.  “You darling!” he said, carried away by her tone.  “I believe I’d rather have you than—­than God!”

She did not move in her corner, nor did she smile now.  “I wonder,” she said slowly.  “Peter, it’s you that hate shams, not I. It’s you that are brave, not I. I play with shams because I know they’re shams, but I like playing with them.  But you are greater than I. You are not content with playing.  One of these days—­oh, I don’t know....”  She broke off and looked away.

Peter gripped her hand tightly.  “Don’t, little girl,” he said.  “Let’s forget for to-day.  Look at those primroses; they’re the first I’ve seen.  Aren’t they heavenly?”

They ran into Caudebec in good time, and lunched at an hotel overlooking the river, with great enthusiasm.  To Peter it was utterly delicious to have her by him.  She was as gay as she could possibly be, and made fun over everything.  Sitting daintily before him, her daring, unconventional talk carried him away.  She chose the wine, and after dejeuner sat with her elbows on the table, puffing at a cigarette, her brown eyes alight with mischief, apparently without a thought for to-morrow.