"Body and soul. Oui, ma'am'selle. But listen--there is something--" His face changed in a breath, the eyes were blazing again, the mouth had turned as sinister as his _nom de guerre_ signified. But something in Sheila's eyes checked him. He put out a hand unconsciously and laid it on her as though to steady himself. "Non, ma'am'selle. One need not tell everything. You will see enough--enough." When they landed, his good-bys to her were curiously brief. He held her hand a second as if he would have said a great deal; then with a quick "_Au 'voir_" he flung it from him and was down the gangway. But with Peter it was different. He found him alone and vouchsafed him for the first time what might have been called conversation. "I do not know until yesterday that you were betrothed to Ma'am'selle O'Leary. That is so?" Peter nodded. "You have been generous, monsieur. I wish to thank you." Peter held out his hand. "Oh, that's all right. American men aren't given to being jealous, as a rule. Besides, Miss O'Leary is the sort one has no right to be selfish with. I guess you understand?" "Oui, monsieur. She belongs a little to every one, man or child, who needs the sympathy, the kind word, the loving heart. Moi, I comprehend. Some time, perhaps, I render back the service. Then you can trust me; the honor of Bertrand Fauchet can be trusted with women. Adieu, monsieur." By dawn the next day the passengers of the liner were scattering to the far corners of the fighting-front. Jacques Marchand had gone, _via_ the office of the _Figaro_, to Flanders. Monsieur Satan had been despatched to relieve another captain of the Chasseurs Alpins with French outposts along the Oise. Peter had received his war permits to join the A. E. F. in action and Sheila had received her appointment to an evacuation hospital near the front. Her parting with Peter was over before either of them had time to realize it. Her train left the Gare du Nord before his. They had very little to say, these two who had claimed each other out of all the world and now were putting aside their personal happiness that they might give their service where it was so really needed. There were no whimperings of heart, no conscious self-righteousness; only a great gladness that hard work lay before them and that they understood each other. "Good-by, man o' mine. Whatever happens, remember I am yours for always, and death doesn't count," and Sheila laid her lips to Peter's in final pledge. "I know," said Peter. "That's what makes all this so absurdly easy. And, sweetheart, you are to remember this, never put any thought of me before what you feel you have got to do. Don't bungle your instincts. I'd swear by them next to God's own." And so they went their separate ways.