We all settled down to life and work again, as best we could. Johnny Potter went into a publisher's office, and also got odd jobs of reviewing and journalism, besides writing war verse and poetry of passion (of which confusing if attractive subject, he really knew little). Juke was demobilised early too, commenced clergyman again, got a job as curate in a central London parish, and lived in rooms in a slummy street. He and I saw a good deal of each other.
One day in March, Juke and I were lunching together at the 1917 Club, when Johnny came in and joined us. He looked rather queer, and amused too. He didn't tell us anything till we were having coffee. Then Juke or I said, 'How's Jane getting on in Paris? Not bored yet?'
Johnny said, 'I should say not. She's been and gone and done it. She's got engaged to Hobart. I heard from the mater this morning.'
I don't think either of us spoke for a moment. Then Juke gave a long whistle, and said, 'Good Lord!'
'Exactly,' said Johnny, and grinned.
'It's no laughing matter,' said Juke blandly. 'Jane is imperilling her immortal soul. She is yoking together with an unbeliever; she is forming an unholy alliance with mammon. We must stop it.'
'Stop Jane,' said Johnny. 'You might as well try and stop a young tank.'
He meditated for a moment.
'The funny thing is,' he added, 'that we all thought it was Clare he was after.'
'Now that,' Juke said judicially, 'would have been all right. Your elder sister could have had Hobart and the Daily Haste without betraying her principles. But Jane—Jane, the anti-Potterite … I say, why is she doing it?'