She chose the wine, and after _dejeuner_ sat with her elbows on the table, puffing at a cigarette, her brown eyes alight with mischief, apparently without a thought for to-morrow.
"Oh, I say," she said, "do look at that party in the corner.

The old Major's well away, and the girl'll have a job to keep him in hand, I wonder where they're from?
Rouen, perhaps; there was a car at the door.
What do you think of the girl ?" Peter glanced back.

"No better than she ought to be," he said.
"No, I don't suppose so, but they are gay, these French girls.

I don't wonder men like them.

And they have a hard time.