"_Sapristi!_" thought Raymond, as Patrine gave him her large hand and assured him in her big warm voice that she was frightfully pleased to meet a friend of Alan’s.—"A magnificent type of the human female animal to have paired with this bluff, simple English boy. Part _femme du monde_, part romping hoyden, part _cabotine_, she should have been a Duchesse of the old Napoleonic regime, or at least the effect that lies behind a _cause célèbre_ of the Paris Law Courts of modern days. And she will be expected by this honest fellow to live in a stucco villa at Kensington or the Crystal Palace, and bear and rear his children, and live and die in all the deadly respectability of the British middle-class _milieu_!" But he made his beautiful bow and murmured some civil phrases. In the spring, at the Hendon Flying Grounds of M. Fanshaw, he, Raymond, had been interested to meet the friend of Mademoiselle. Had been profoundly impressed by the displayed inventions of a young man so gifted as aviator and engineer. Had had the good fortune subsequently to obtain the consent of his own Chiefs of the S. Aë. F. to a test of an invention—the value of which had been hall-marked by the approbation of Messieurs les Allemands. True, M. Sherbrand had been the victim of their unscrupulosity. But Fortune, who knew? might be kinder in the near future. This War so grievous, so brutal, so deplorable, waged by the Prussian against Civilisation and Progress, would open up not only _le métier des armes_, but countless other avenues of prosperity to thousands of ardent and gifted young men. Like M. Sherbrand. To whom Raymond said with an authoritative glance of his blue eye: "My friend, we keep your auto waiting at the door!" "Ah, but stay!" Patrine began, with a sense of hatred towards the well-used little Ford runabout standing in much grander company by the kerb outside the Club: "do stay and lunch and smoke and tell us things about the War, won’t you?" "A thousand thanks, but impossible, Mademoiselle!" Raymond shrugged, conscious that her look of disappointment was for Sherbrand, and pleaded fatigue as an excuse. "For these are iron times, Mademoiselle," he went on in his smooth, musical accents, "and we who live in them are unfortunately of flesh and blood. When the War is done perhaps there will again be social pleasures like the lunch you were so kind as to offer me. That I am tempted to accept I will not conceal from you. I have not eaten since I flew from France at _la pointe du jour_—one of the smallest of the little hours of this morning, and then I broke fast on two fingers of little red wine, and a hunch of soldier’s bread." "You mean to say you’re fresh from flying the Channel?" "Crossing the Channel came near the end of my journey, Mademoiselle. I should have arrived earlier"—he shrugged indifferently—"had not some German aviators caused delay."