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 _dèjeuner_ sat with her elbows on the table, puffing at a cigarette, her brown eyes alight with mischief, apparently without a thought for to-morrow. "Oh, I say," she said, "do look at that party in the corner. The old Major's well away, and the girl'll have a job to keep him in hand, I wonder where they're from? Rouen, perhaps; there was a car at the door. What do you think of the girl?" Peter glanced back. "No better than she ought to be," he said. "No, I don't suppose so, but they are gay, these French girls. I don't wonder men like them. And they have a hard time. I'd give them a leg up any day if I could. I can't, though, so if ever you get a chance do it for me, will you?" Peter assented. "Come on," he said. "Finish that glass if you think you can, and let's get out." "Here's the best, then, I've done. What are we going to see?"