Peter lay on a home-made bed between the blankets and contemplated the ceiling while he smoked his first cigarette.

He had been a fortnight at Rouen, and he was beginning to feel an old soldier--that is to say, he was learning not to worry too much about outside things, and not to show he worried particularly about the interior.

He was learning to stand around and smoke endless cigarettes; to stroll in to breakfast and out again, look over a paper, sniff the air, write a letter, read another paper, wander round the camp, talk a lot of rubbish and listen to more, and so do a morning's work.

Occasionally he took a service, but his real job was, as mess secretary, to despatch the man to town for the shopping and afterwards go and settle the bills.

Just at present he was wondering sleepily whether to continue ordering fish from the big merchants, Biais Freres et Cie, or to go down to the market and choose it for himself.