The girl threw herself back, laughing merrily, "Oh, you are funny!" she said. "Lucienne, take your boy away; I want to talk to mine." Before he could think of a remonstrance, it was done. Pennell and the other girl got up from the bed where they had been whispering together, and left the room. "Pennell!" called Peter, too late again, jumping up. The girl ran round him, pushed the door to, locked it, and dropped the key down the neck of her dress. "Voila!" she said gaily. There came a knock on the door. "Non, non!" she cried in French. "Take the wine to Mlle. Lucienne; I am busy." Peter walked across the room to her. "Give me the key," he said, holding out his hand, and changing his tactics. "Please do. I won't go till my friend comes back. I promise." The girl looked at him. "You promise? But you will 'ave to find it." He smiled and nodded, and she walked deliberately to the bed, undid the front of her costume, and slipped it off. Bare necked and armed, she turned to him, holding open the front of her chemise. "Down there," she said. It was a strange moment and a strange thing, but a curious courage came back to Peter in that second. Without hesitation, he put his hand down and sought for the key against her warm body. He found it, and help it up, smiling. Then he moved to the door, pushed the key in the keyhole, and turned again to the girl. "There!" he said simply. With a gesture of abandon, she threw herself on the bed, propping her cheek on her hand and staring at him. He sat down where Pennell had sat, but made no attempt to touch her, leaning, instead, back and away against the iron bed-post. She pulled up her knees, flung her arms back, and laughed. "And now, monsieur?" she said. Peter had never felt so cool in his life. His thoughts raced, but steadily, as if he had dived into cold, clear water. He smiled again, unhesitatingly, but sadly. "Dear," he said deliberately, "listen to me. I have cheated you by coming here to-day, though you shan't suffer for it. I did not want anything, and I don't now. But I'm glad I've come, even though you do not understand. I don't want to do a bit what my friend is doing. I don't know why, but I don't. I'm engaged to a girl in England, but it's not because of that. I'm a chaplain too--a curé, you know--in the English Army; but it's not because of that." "Protestant?" demanded the girl on the bed. He nodded. "Ah, well," she said, "the Protestant ministers have wives. They are men; it is different with priests. If your fiancée is wise, she wouldn't mind if you love me a little. She is in England; I am here--is it not so? You love me now; again, perhaps, once or twice. Then it is finished. You do not tell your fiancée and she does not know. It is no matter. Come on, chérie!" She held out her hands and threw her head back on the pillow. Peter smiled again. "You do not understand," he said. "And nor do I, but I must be different from some men. I do not want to."