While le Capitaine Eustache de la Potinière was in the shop, Fanshaw lolled in the cab and stared down the grey Palermo street where the dust gave a shimmering outline to the patches of sun and shadow. Now and then he straightened up and answered the salute of some Italian soldier. His puttees were too tight and cut into his legs above the ankle. Never mind, this was the last day. Tomorrow, sailing for home a civilian, no more uniform, no more inspecting colonels to talk to. Strange and different it will be coming back from the war. The thought was elating. And Nan Taylor, what will have become of her? A year since he'd heard of her. Poor Nan must be getting quite an old maid by this time, and, as for me, if it hadn't been for the war, this curious life in Italy, relief work ... Le Capitaine Eustache de la Potinière was coming out of the shop, red and spluttering. "Did you get what you wanted?" asked Fanshaw. "These dirty Sicilians don't seem to understand. We'll try another place. Alley oop! Continuez!... We'll dine in the grand manner, won't we?... Imagine, this is my first day of Europe after a year of Africa. If I had not chanced to meet you, Captain Macdougan, I should have bored myself to death." "Then you weren't on the front for the victory?" "I was in the battle that made the victory. The war was won in the first battle of the Marne ... That's where I almost lost my leg and picked up a medaille militaire ... Ah, there's another chemist ... Arretez donc. Bon ... Perhaps you could help me explain." They got out of the cab and went into the shop. "What I want is tincture of yohimbine ... a very useful product ... a slight aid, that's what it is." The clerk was a small yellow man with a bald head who wore a stained pongee jacket. He looked up through slanting eyeglasses at the French captain who stood over him twirling the end of his moustache. "Avez-vous de la teinture de yohimbine, monsieur?" "Non comprendo, signore." "Won't you explain to him what I want?... It's a little help, a slight aid." Le Capitaine Eustache de la Potinière waved a tightly gloved hand under the druggist's nose. Is this man crazy? Fanshaw was thinking. Why am I riding round in a cab with this man? "Cré nom d'un chien, por l'amore!" shouted the French captain. "Teinture de yohimbine." Fanshaw felt himself turn red. "I don't imagine they have it," he said hastily and walked out of the shop. He had barely got into the cab when the French captain followed. "Ce sale pays," he was muttering. As he climbed into the cab his usual bland smile crept back over his face. "Now we can dine," he said. "It takes more than a slight contrariety to ruffle old campaigners, eh, Captain Macdougan?" "All right, let's have dinner," Fanshaw assented weakly. How on earth did I get in with this ridiculous Frenchman, he was bitterly asking himself. Last day in Italy, too, that I had intended to be so pleasant. Intended to go up to Monreale to see the mosaics and the view.