"You're in luck, padre," said the other. "It's bally rotten getting in at
two-thirty, and probably the beastly thing won't go till five. Still, it
might be worse. You can get on board at midnight, and with luck get to
sleep. If I were you, I'd be down here early for yours--crowded always,
it is. Of course, you'll dine at the club?"

Peter supposed he would.

The club entrance was full up with officers, and more and more kept
pouring in. Donovan was just leaving the counter on the right with some
tickets in his hand as they pushed in. "See you later," he called out.
"I've got to sleep here, and I want to leave my traps."

Peter wondered where, but was too much occupied in keeping well behind
the Fusilier to think much. At a kind of counter a girl in a W.A.A.C.
uniform was serving out tickets of one sort and another, and presently
the two of them were before her. For a few francs one got tickets for
lunch, dinner, bed, a bath, and whatever else one wanted, but Peter
had no French money. The Fusilier bought him the first two, however,
and together they forced their way out into the great lounge. "Half
an hour before lunch," said his new companion, and then, catching sight
of someone: "Hullo, Jack, you back? Never saw you on the boat. Did
you ..." His voice trailed off as he crossed the room.

Peter looked around a little disconsolately. Then he made his way to a
huge lounge-chair and threw himself into it.

All about him was a subdued chatter. A big fire burned in the stove,
and round it was a wide semicircle of chairs. Against the wall were