burst into the room. Paul Ravenel P “Paul, I am worn to a shadow with sheer idleness,” he cried. “Always something is going to happen, never anything does happen; except ships and ships and ships and batteries landing and soldiers marching to God knows where. I can bear no more of it. We will break out to-night, Paul. We will drink Casablanca in one draught. We will do something wild and utterly original.” Paul looked up and laughed. “For instance?” “Yes, it is rather difficult. To begin with, we might go to the Villa Iris.” “That bouge?” bouge “And we might dance with Marguerite Lambert, the American?” Paul stared. “And who the devil is Marguerite Lambert?” he asked. Could any good thing come out of the Villa Iris? “It is high time you knew her,” said Gerard de Montignac decidedly. “What is she like?” “I haven’t seen her, either. But the little Praslin says she’s a dream, and the little Boutreau, the little Boutreau of the Legion cannot sleep at night for thinking of her. It is high time, Paul, that we both made her acquaintance.” Paul laughed and shook his head. “I daren’t risk catching the little Boutreau’s malady until I have finished this report.” “You have a month.” “I know. But I want to go back to my battalion and command my company. Some day we are going to march to Fez. Don’t forget it!” Gerard de Montignac sat down, took off his cap, lit a cigarette and drew up his chair to the table.
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