corner was gay with flowers, and two French peasant women were arranging
the blooms. And then the fiacre swung into the Rue Joanne d'Arc, and
opposite a gloomy-looking entrance pulled up with a jerk. "Here we are,"
said Jenks. "It's up an infernal flight of steps."

The officers' club in Rouen was not monstrously attractive, but they got
a good wash in a little room that looked out over a tangle of picturesque
roofs, and finally some excellent coffee and bacon and eggs.

Jenks lit a cigarette and handed one to Peter. "Better leave your traps,"
he said. "I'll go up with you; I've nothing to do."

Outside the street was filling with the morning traffic, and the two
walked up the slight hill to the accompaniment of a running fire of
comments and explanations from Jenks, "That's Cox's--useful place for
the first half of a month, but not much use to me, anyway, for the
second.... You ought to go to I that shop and buy picture post-cards,
padre; there's a topping girl who sells 'em.... Rue de la Grosse
Horloge--you can see the clock hanging over the road. The street runs
up to the cathedral: rather jolly sometimes, but nothing doing
now.... What's that? I don't know. Yes, I do, Palais de Justice or
something of that sort. Pretty old, I believe.... In those gardens is the
picture gallery; not been in myself, but I believe they've got some good
stuff.... That's your show, over there. Don't be long; I'll hang about."

Peter crossed the street, and, following directions ascended some wooden
stairs. A door round the corner at the top was inscribed "A.C.G. (C. of
E.)," and he went up to it. There he cogitated: ought one to knock, or,
being in uniform, walk straight in? He could not think of any reason
why one should not knock being in uniform, so he knocked.