“Le grand serieux!” said Gerard, speaking of Paul to Marguerite Lambert with an affectionate mockery. “He will be a General when I am an old Major dyeing my moustache to make myself look young. But meanwhile, whilst we are both Captains, I should like to see more of him than I do. For, after all, we go out with our men—and one never knows who will come back.”

Marguerite’s face lost its colour at his words and she drew in her breath sharply. “Oh, it is our business of course,” he continued, taking her sympathy to himself. “Do you know, Marguerite, that for a second, I though you had stirred that thick soup in Paul’s veins which he calls his blood? But no, he never comes here.”

Marguerite laughed hurriedly, and asked at random, “You have seen him to-day?”

“Yes. He was coming out of a house close to the port with the agent who looks after his property, a little Italian. Paul was talking very earnestly and did not notice me. He has a good deal of property in Casablanca and was making his arrangements no doubt for a long absence.”

Marguerite looked down at the table, tracing a pattern upon its surface with her finger. When she spoke again her voice broke upon her words and her lips quivered.

“I shall lose all my friends this week,” she said.

“Only us two,” said Gerard, consoling her.

“That’s what I mean,” she returned with a little smile, and Gerard de Montignac leaned forward.

“Marguerite, I don’t go for a couple of days,” he said, lowering his voice to an eager whisper. “Let us make the best of them! Let me have the memory of two good days and nights to carry away with me, will you? Why not? My work is done. I could start off with my troops at six o’clock to-morrow instead of at six o’clock on the third morning. Give me the next two days.”

Marguerite shook her head.

“No, my friend.”

Gerard de Montignac knew nothing of that conversation which Henriette had held with Paul Ravenel on this spot a few nights before. He could but believe that Marguerite Lambert somehow found that dreadful gang of nondescripts with whom she foregathered more to her taste than he or his friend. She shone like a flower in this squalid haunt, a tired and drooping flower. It was extraordinary that she could endure this company for a moment, to say nothing 

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