On the fourth evening after his departure from Paris Captain Ware stood at the entrance to the Metro on the Place de la Concorde, just across the road from the headquarters of the American Red Cross, waiting for Andree. At his left the Obelisk arose like a great needle; he could see the Metz and Strasburg statues green with wreaths, and beyond other pieces of sculpture deemed of sufficient artistic value to protect with sandbags from the menace of German bombs. Somehow this made him feel that he had not seen Paris, that it would be necessary for him to come back again when the base of the Vend?me Column should not be concealed by sand and concrete, when the carvings on the Arc de Triomphe should not be hidden under scaffoldings and stacked sandbags, when the once despised and criticized statue at the extreme right of the face of the Opéra—now the single piece of sculpture of all that adorned the building considered worth careful protection—should be exposed to view.

There was an analogy between the hooded statues and the spirit of the city. He wanted to see both when they were as they had been before August, 1914. He wanted to see Paris when it was gay, beautiful, carefree, buoyant, volatile. How much more it would mean to see it so after having seen it as it was now.... Just across from him was a wall upon which was a poster exclaiming, “Abri, 40 places.” He wanted to see Paris without that fear riding its shoulders. He wanted to see it when every fourth or fifth shop had not its shutters down in permanence, explained by a sign which gave notice that the closing was by reason of the mobilization.... And yet it was beautiful, compellingly beautiful. Suddenly the certainty came upon him that a people whose genius could have created such a city could not be wrong. He had been told that the genius of the French was rotten at the core, its morals corrupt. He knew in this moment that it was a lie.... Such a city could not have been produced by a people who were decadent, who were not of the greatest, the worthiest of the earth....

In a moment Andree appeared, in a flimsy dress of light material this time, a dress that came just to her shoe-tops. It made her look even slenderer than he had remembered her to be, and more childish.... He waited for her to speak. She approached almost to his side before she seemed to see him, then she raised her eyes quickly, searchingly, to his face and let them fall again. But he had read anxiety and relief in that flickering glance. She shook hands, giving him a trusting little pressure of her fingers.

“You see,” he said, “I promised to come back safe. The boches didn’t get me.”

“It is ver’ well. If the boches keel you I am ver’ angry—me.”

“Have you been lonely for me?”

“Oh!...” she said, and raised her eyes again for an instant. “And you—do you think of me? But, no. You have been très-occupé—ver’ busy.... And you have seen other girls.”

She asked no questions about the front, showed no desire to hear about the affairs of war. Poor child! Like the great multitude of her sisters, she was tired of war, bored with war. In her mind was only one question about the war—when would it end?

“Bert and Madeleine are going to dine with us,” he said.

“That is well.... Monsieur Bert—is he well? And Madeleine? Have you seen her?”

“No.”

“That high yo’ng man!” she said, and laughed. “Oh, it is not nice for you to make fon of me. High.... Tall.... How shall one tell them apart?”

“Don’t try,” Kendall said. Then he laughed at his recollections of her blunders in a strange language. “At what hour do you lift up?” he mimicked her.

“I have study English since you have gone away. I know that now. It is not lift up; it is raise up. At what hour do you raise up in the morning. N’est-ce pas?”

“You have studied!” he exclaimed. “I’m proud of you. But you speak English better than I do now.”

“Better than you do French,” she said, with a little grimace.

“What have you been doing while I was away?” he asked, and asked because he was really curious. He wanted to know something about her life away from him, about her regular routine life. To him now she was a creature that appeared as out of a fog, to disappear again into a fog, untraceable, strange, mysterious. She must do something. She must have a family. She must live in a house and sleep in a bed and take her meals at a table. It must be that she had her friends and her little every-day affairs, different, perhaps, from the every-day affairs of the American girl, but nevertheless taking up the greater part of her life.... He wished he could have the history of one of her days from waking to sleeping, could be present to oversee one of her days.

“I have been lonely,” she said. So she always answered, and, it seemed to him, not from any conscious effort to hide her life from him, but rather because when she was with him it was her belief that nothing was of interest to them but each other. It was as if she wanted to shut all the rest of the world out, forget all the world and its business, and remember only themselves and their little moments of happiness together. No, it was not concealment, it was the exclusiveness of love. “I—many times—I thought you would not come.... And I was sad.” She pressed his arm gently.

They boarded the red car—first class—of the Metro, and it started its rather leisurely journey westward under the Place de la Concorde and the Champs élysées. Kendall always insisted on riding first class on the subway, though Andree urged it was a scandalous waste of money. One could ride as comfortably second class, or, if the trip were very short, the saving by taking third class was worth one’s while. The car was crowded—women, a few old men in civilian clothes, poilus, officers (one with four medals on his breast), Belgians with little gold tassels dangling from the fronts of their caps, two English soldiers in an advanced state of intoxication who recognized Kendall as belonging to a kindred race and shouted joyously to him from afar.

“Hey, matey, does this ’ere car git us to the Gare St.-Nizaire?”

Kendall shook his head.

“Needn’t be so dam’ close-mouthed. Speak up like you was a officer and a gen’lman! ’Urrah for America, says I. ’Ear me, Jock? Wi’ a will, Jock.... ’Urrah for America.”

With enthusiasm they cheered for their newest ally, while Kendall blushed with the embarrassment of finding himself thus elevated to a place of prominence. The car laughed joyfully and in sympathy with the Britishers. Andree looked up into Kendall’s face and, finding it forbidding, pressed his arm and smiled.

“Beaucoup de zigzag,” she said, philosophically, as if that explained all and excused all.

It was not until they alighted at the étoile that Kendall was rid of the attentions of his friends, and even there one of them leaned out of the front door as Ken descended from the rear and shouted: “Give me love to your lidy friend, ol’ top.... ’Urrah for President Wilson....”

Kendall did not regain his equanimity until they were nearing the apartment; it was the more difficult to regain because he had a feeling that Andree was laughing at him a bit, notwithstanding her grave face. He felt, somehow, that the necessity for maintaining dignity at all times—a foible of American youth—was not to be understood by Andree, and fell under that category of actions which she described as “C’est dr?le.”

Madame the concierge greeted them with affability; the big glass door slammed behind them as it always did when Kendall forgot to hold it carefully, and the sound of its slamming echoed hollowly up the stairs.

At the first floor Andree paused and clung to the banister. “Oh, you must have—what you call—?” She made a lifting motion with her hands.

“An elevator?”

“Yes, yes.... Now. At once. Go. Run quickly and fetch an elevator. I shall stay here.”

He made pretense of lifting her in his arms.

“No.... No.... I must have an elevator. Oh, you do not get me an elevator.” There was awful despair in her voice. “You do not love me.... No.... Then I shall go away. You are not kind.”

“I’ll get you two elevators. I’ll get you half a dozen, but the elevator-store is closed for the night. You’ll have to wait till morning.”

“Oh, I do not onderstan’. You speak trop vite—much fast. So I shall ron away from you....” And she danced away from him up the stairs, not at all like a young woman, but wholly like a child, with the glee of a child. “Behol’!” she cried, presently. “The clef it is under the mat. I find it. I know where it is hidden. Now I shall come by night and rob you.... I shall carry away everything—everything.”

She handed him the huge key and he opened the door for her and allowed her to pass into the narrow hall. She stopped timidly, waiting for him to enter, peering about as if some danger might lurk behind any of the doors. She was very sweet, very dainty....

“Mignonne,” he said, and took both her hands—and then she was in his arms, her lips to his ... and he knew that he loved her, that she had charmed his heart into her keeping—and that he was very glad to have it there.

“You love me?” she whispered.

“Much.... Much.... And you?”

“Oh yes.... I am not solitaire now. Je suis très-joyeuse.”

“You must always be glad. You must always be happy.”

“As long as you love me.”

“I shall always love you.”

“Non!... Non!... It ees not possible. In a day, in a week—I do not know when—you will go away, and I will be sad.”

“I don’t know when I shall have to go, nor where I shall have to go.... It is the war.... But whenever and wherever, I shall love you.”

“It is well—but—but I do not believe you.... Oh, life it is not well! It is our besoin—our need—to find many little minutes. That is the best of life. I know.... Much sadness, much loneliness ... but now and then the little minutes of happiness.”

He was hanging her tam-o’-shanter on the hall tree, then he led her into the salon with its bronze statues and its gilded furniture, at which she did not wrinkle her nose this time, for she was in serious mood.

“Are you always happy?” she asked.

“I’m not often unhappy.”

“That is ver’ well—yes.... It is not so well as to be happy, but it is better than to be sad.... Me, I am often sad.”

“I’ll put a stop to that. From now on you must be happy.”

“Come—you must sit close to me—ver’ close—so....” She had seated herself by the table and was looking at a magazine, a French periodical filled with pictures of young women in one-piece bathing-suits. “They are ver’ beautiful,” she said, slipping her arm about his neck and pressing her cheek to his. “I should like to be beautiful—yes. That would be well.”

“Vous étes très-jolie,” he protested.

She laughed. “No, but I like you to tell me.... You theenk I am pretty?”

“You bet I do.”

“It is well. Then for you I am pretty, and I am glad.... Also I am ver’ nice, and ver’ wise, n’est-ce pas?”

“You are the cunningest little person that ever lived.”

“Hush!... There is some one. Listen.”

“Bert and Madeleine,” he said, as he heard a key fumbling in the door.

“Then I mus’ be ver’ sérieuse—so.” She sat erect, very primly, her hands folded in her lap—a very image of gravity and circumspection. Presently Bert and Madeleine entered the room. The girls shook hands gravely and exchanged a few words. Then Madeleine shook hands with Kendall and Bert with Andree. Everybody must shake hands before matters could proceed. Once disposed of, formality relaxed; the girls chattered in French, Madeleine with laughing vivacity and many gestures, Andree rather as if she were a bit embarrassed, always searching Madeleine with her eyes as she studied every new-comer into her acquaintance. Her eyes were always studying, studying, but she never disclosed what they told her.

Arlette opened the door of the dining-room very softly and allowed her head to project into the room. She did so very discreetly and silently, as if she were afraid of being detected in the act of announcing dinner. She uttered no word, but allowed her head to remain, round and big-eyed, until it should be seen—like the sign of a restaurant making its silent announcement. Kendall caught her eye, and in a twinkling she disappeared with comical haste—a pudgy jack-in-a-box.

“Dinner is served,” Kendall said, “and I’m hungry.”

A fine, thick soup steamed in a huge bowl in the middle of the table, and Arlette watched with big-eyed anxiety while Bert served it. Before any one could taste a spoonful her impatience overcame her; she could contain herself no longer.

“It is pea soup,” she said, explosively.

Madeleine laughed, showing her fine white teeth. “It is very good,” she said in French.

“Monsieur Kendall does not like,” exclaimed Arlette, in heartrending accents as she perceived that Ken did not at once address himself to the potage, but sat regarding Andree, forgetful of everything else.

“Oh yes, he does,” said Bert, “but Monsieur Kendall is in love. Presently if he does not eat I shall feed him.... Arlette,” he demanded, severely, “are you in love with some young man?”

“Ho!...” she exclaimed, and, overcome with embarrassed giggles, scurried out of the room.

“C’est dr?le,” said Andree, judgmatically.

“Is red wine or white wine desired?” Arlette asked from the door.

“Suppose we try a bottle of that Anjou Rose,” said Ken. “I like the color of it.”

“Anjou!” exclaimed Madeleine. “Ah, that is my country. I am born there.... The wine of Anjou it is ver’ well.... I shall go soon to visit in that country—to, if possible, sell a house. Yes. Oh, it is mos’ beautiful.”

Andree regarded her speculatively, gravely.

“Before the war my father owns the store of the shoes there. There is a yo’ng man work in thees store, and I am ver’ yo’ng. I do not know theengs. Mais non. I am marry thees yo’ng man, but he ees no good—him. My father die, my mother die, and I am orpheline. It ees ver’ bad for me, bicause my oncle and thees yo’ng man they take away the store of the shoes and I have not’ing only thees house. It ees so. Thees yo’ng man he ees ver’ bad; he is not fidèle; also he is mos’ unkind. Then he go to the war, and I never see him since. I theenk he is dead.... It ees ver’ well. But my oncle he lives—but I have not’ing. It is ver’ necessary I mus’ eat, so I come to Paris and work in the store of the shoes.... Now, ver’ soon I go to my country for sell thees house and to have a leetle money.” She shrugged her shoulders and laughed. “I do not cry—no, I laugh. Much time I laugh, bicause why not? It is ver’ nécessaire to laugh and be happy. Is it not so, my Bert?”

“Laugh all you like, my dear.”

Andree raised her eyes to Madeleine’s face. “Oh, it ees too bad,” she said. “Thees husban’ and thees oncle they are ver’ wicked.”

Thus encouraged, Madeleine amplified her autobiography in an avalanche of headlong French, while Andree listened unsmilingly and nodded her head now and then, or waggled it a trifle in sympathy or condemnation of some related atrocity.

“You see,” she said to Kendall, “no one is happy. It is so. Life it is not nice—for yo’ng girls.”

“One mus’ theenk not about the sad theengs,” said Madeleine, sententiously. “One mus’ be happy. That ees best. Me—I take what comes.... See, I am ver’ ol’. Oui.... I am twenty-four. So ol’ am I that no man ever want to marry me.... Tiens! I am passée. But still I laugh.... I love Monsieur Bert, and I am happy. One day Monsieur Bert love me no more....” She shrugged ............