"A sporting little blighter I met at the Brasserie Opera told me he hadn't anything to do, anyway." "I shall be a padre in the next war," said Jenks, stretching out his legs.

"A parade on Sunday, and you're finished for the week.

No orderly dog, no night work, and plenty of time for your meals.

Padres can always get leave too, and they always come and go by Paris." Donovan laughed, and glanced sideways at Peter.

"Stow it, Jenks," he said.