"Damned poor whisky!" said the latter, catching the rail as the boat
heaved a bit, "begging your pardon, padre. Better try brandy. If the war
lasts much longer there'll be no whisky worth drinking this side. I'm off
it till we get to the club at Boulogne."

Peter and Donovan went off together. It was a new experience for Peter,
but he wouldn't have owned it. They groped their way down the saloon
stairs, and through a crowd to the little bar. "What's yours?" demanded
Donovan.

"Oh, I'll take the Major's advice," said Peter. "Brandy-and-soda for me."

"Soda finished, sir," said the bar steward.

"All right: two brandies-and-water, steward," said Donovan, and swung a
revolving seat near round for Graham. As he took it, Peter noticed the
man opposite. His badge was a Maltese Cross, but he wore a flannel collar
and tie. Their eyes met, but the other stared a bit stonily. For the
second time, Peter wished he hadn't a clerical collar. The next he was
taking the glass from the South African. "Cheerio," said Donovan.

"Here's to you," said Peter, and leaned back with an assumption of ease.

He had a strange sense of unreality. No fool and no Puritan, he had
naturally, however, been little in such an atmosphere since ordination.
He would have had a drink in Park Lane with the utmost ease, and he would
have argued, over it, that the clergy were not nearly so out of touch
with men as the papers said. But down here, in the steamer's saloon,
surrounded by officers, in an atmosphere of indifference to him and his