Peter resisted no longer. "Don't," he said. "Call me anything but that." It seemed to him that there was something inevitable in it all. He did not formulate his sensations, but it was the lure of the contrast that won him. Ever since he had landed in France he had, as it were, hung on to the old conventional position, and he had felt increasingly that it was impossible to do so. True, there seemed little connection between a dinner with a couple of madcap girls in a French restaurant and religion, but there was one. He had felt out of touch with men and life, and now a new phase of it was offered him. He reached out for it eagerly.
Julie leaned back and blew out a thin stream of smoke, her eyes daring him, picking up the little glass as she did so.
"Here's to the girl with the little grey shoes," she chanted merrily.
"Don't Julie, for Heaven's sake!" pleaded Tommy. "He'll be shocked."
"Oh, go on," said Peter; "what is it?"
"Captain Donovan will finish," laughed Julie.
"'Deed I can't, for I don't know it," he said. "Let's have it, little girl; I'm sure it's a sporting toast."
"Who eats your grub and drinks your booze," continued she.
"Shut up, Julie," said Tommy, leaning over as if to snatch her glass.
"And then goes home to her mother to snooze," called Julie breathlessly, leaning back.