CHAPTER IV 



JEAN PIERRE AND THE MAYFLIES 



It has been often a matter of contention 

 whether the first morning pipe be the 

 sweeter, or that which we draw on con- 

 tentedly after the cloth has been cleared 

 away, our glasses filled, and the final turf 

 placed on the glowing peats. A great 

 deal can be said for that last pipe, which, 

 before a dreamless sleep, soothes tired and 

 contented muscles. Perhaps its fragrance 

 is only made complete when we have said 

 good-night, climbed up to our room, thrown 

 open the pei^siennes, and leant on the 

 window-bar above the sleeping village. 

 All below us is still and silent. The white 

 houses in the little square are luminous, 

 a-shimmer — our pipe burns faint and grey 

 against the twinkling stars. 



Jean Pierre and I have often discussed 

 the merits of tobacco (my old friend does 

 not use it in ignited form, but keeps an 



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