Kendall had paid little attention to Andree’s assertion that she had seen Maude Knox in Paris, yet on Monday he received a petit bleu from her informing him that she was again at the H?tel Wagram and would be delighted to have him call that evening if he were free. At his first reading of the note Maude Knox seemed to him an intrusion. Somehow be rather resented her existence because, subconsciously, he knew that association with her was going to be disquieting. It would give rise to argument within himself and to speculations upon the future which he would have liked to avoid. He was satisfied and as happy as he had ever been in his life—and Maude was a complication. If Maude Knox had been less important in his life he would have welcomed her more heartily.

However, as he thought more and more of her presence, he found himself desiring greatly to see her. There was something sympathetic and dependable about her, something that he could understand and approve. She was American, thoroughly American. Yes, by all means, he wished to see her, but he would hold himself in restraint. They should not become at all personal, and he would watch the conversation carefully to see that it did not turn any unexpected corners or wander down lanes ending in disagreeable obstacles to be cleared.

“There’s no reason why I shouldn’t be decent to her,” he told himself, speciously. “She’s probably lonesome, and we are both Americans....” He remembered the hour or so he had spent with her in Montreuil, and how he had come away from her in a state of perplexity, wondering if it were possible for a man to love two women at the same time.... “It isn’t that,” he told himself. “I love Andree and nobody but Andree ... but that’s no reason I shouldn’t see Maude. Anyhow, she’ll be here only a day or so....”

The truth of the matter was that, without realizing it, Kendall did not trust himself. He was afraid that a thing might happen which he was in a queer sort of way half willing should happen—that he might fall in love with Maude Knox or that he might realize in her presence that he actually was in love with her. It was a singular position. Undoubtedly he loved Andree—but how? That he did not ask himself. He loved her, he had a sort of reverence for her, and he had besides a real friendship for her, but—He would inevitably have reached that but if he had allowed himself to analyze his love for her.... A man may have one child and love it with a love which he fancies is boundless and exclusive. He may believe that every fraction of the love he has to give belongs to that child, and he may resent the coming of a second child and look upon it as an interloper. But very shortly he finds himself loving the new-comer not one whit less than the first-born.... If love can become miraculous in this manner—inexhaustible like the loaves and fishes—with respect to children, cannot it be the same with respect to women? Kendall had seen the first develop in the case of a friend, had heard the friend speak in confidence before the coming of his second child, and had observed him after the passage of a few weeks. He took it as the basis of an argument and, using it as a stepping-stone, reached a conclusion which was disturbing ... but not lacking in a certain allurement.... And what of countries where there are plural marriages? How in the case of a man lawfully possessed of more than one wife? Does such a man love all, or only one, or none?...

It was in this uncertain frame of mind that he went to the Wagram and called Maude Knox’s room on the rather difficult house telephone.

“Captain Ware!...” said her voice. “I hardly expected you, but it’s good of you to have come. I’ll be right down.”

She appeared presently, not in her uniform, but in such a dress as she might have worn at home in America when going out for the evening with a young gentleman.

“What are you doing in Paris?” he demanded. “I thought you were busy being the queen of the doughboys.”

“The division’s being moved, I don’t know where, and I was sent in to wait for orders. Some of our men marched on the Fourth.”

“I suppose it seems good to get back into the world again.”

“Anybody can be in Paris,” she said. “I’ve been having the time of my life—and, really, I think I was some good. I believe I was. The men liked to have me there.”

“Naturally.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Do I understand that you are taking me to dinner?”

“You do. Where shall it be?”

“Anywhere, so long as there is food I don’t have to cook myself.... I’ve been living on things out of cans—except when the officers’ mess had something particularly good and sent some over.”

“It hasn’t hurt you a bit.... You look mighty well.” He was thinking that she did look very well, indeed. Not exactly beautiful, but satisfyingly good-looking—the way he liked to see a girl look. A fellow might be proud to be seen with her. She showed class....

“How about the Continental?” he asked.

“I’d like it. I’ve never eaten there.”

They passed out of the hotel and strolled up the rue de Rivoli to the rue Royale, and then dodged careless taxi-cabs to cross the broad avenue which stretched with an air of pride to the face of the Madeleine. Two or three American officers were loitering about the entrance to the Continental, and Ken experienced a sense of satisfaction as he became conscious of their surreptitious stares of admiration at his companion.... They traversed the court and entered the big dining-room which stretched along the rue de Rivoli and through whose windows one may look out upon the Place de la Concorde and across the river to the Palais Legislatif. The occupants of the room were mostly Americans—officers, officials of the Red Cross, and women of that organization and the Y. M. C. A.

“What have you been doing? Tell me all the news,” Maude said, as they seated themselves at a table close to the windows.

“I?... Working as usual, and there isn’t any news. Never come to the war if you want news of the war. I knew a lot more about it when I was back in Detroit than I do in Paris.”

“Our division was full of rumors of a big American offensive.”

“And Paris is full of rumors of a big German offensive. It was to have started on the fourth of July, but now it has been postponed to the fourteenth—Bastille Day.... You can hear anything.”

“I think something is going to happen. The Blue Devils are up the other side of Meaux. I’ve seen them. Everybody tells me their presence is a sign that something is going to happen.”

“Frankly, I don’t believe it. If anything comes I think it will be a German attack. I don’t look for the Allies to do much before spring—”

“When our aeroplanes get here?” she interjected. “My! but our boys have grumbled about aeroplanes. It makes them irritable to see German planes buzzing around.”

“Don’t blame them. There are rumors about aeroplanes, too. A poilu asked me the other day if it was true that we had twenty thousand of them over here.”

The conversation was following a matter-of-fact, commonplace, impersonal lane—just such a way as Ken had determined it should follow. Yet he was dissatisfied with it. He felt that it lacked something, and that, consequently, Maude and himself were not getting the most out of each other’s company. He had resolved not to talk about himself nor about Maude nor about the sentiments they inspired in each other, but he found himself wanting to do so. The staple, as well as the most absorbing, topic for any young person is himself. It becomes doubly absorbing if two young persons can join and discuss themselves and their reactions to each other.... Maude seemed a trifle bored, he thought. Then, suddenly and with a touch of impatience, she said:

“What has been happening to you?... And that pretty little girl? What was her name?”

She, too, seemed to desire to alter the character of the conversation.

Nothing had been happening to him—at least that he could tell her about. He insisted that life had been a dull affair of work and sleep for him.

“Nonsense! I’m interested.... Oh, I remember her name—it was Andree. Tell me about Andree.”

“She’s a mighty nice little girl. I see her every now and then.”

“Every now and then,” she mocked. “When did you see her last?”

“Yesterday.”

“And before that?”

“I was away for a few days.”

“But you saw her the night before you went away?”

“Yes.”

“And if I hadn’t interfered you’d have seen her to-night.”

“No—we had no engagement for to-night.”

She laughed. “You’re not especially subtle. Are you really in love with this girl?... Do tell me all about her. I know I’m prying and curious—but—Oh, I’m just curious about her.”

“I—there’s nothing to tell.”

“There must be. How is she different from us American girls? She seemed very attractive—and sweet.”

“She says the difference between French and American girls is that you don’t know how to dress your feet,” he said, with an uneasy laugh. It rather pleased him that Maude looked blank an instant and then made an evident effort to look at her footgear. “Do you want to go to the Casino or some other place to-night?”

“Not until I’ve found out more about your friend. You know I liked her looks very much.... Why can’t I meet her? She wouldn’t be jealous, would she? You did introduce her, you know. Can’t we have a little party—the three of us?”

“No,” he said, with flat finality in his voice.

“Why?”

He did not want to reply, did not know what to reply. The reason that he did not even want to put into definite thought was that Maude ought not to meet Andree—because Andree was to him what she was.... Maude was an American girl, a compatriot living under the laws of the Medes and the Persians, and it would not be proper for her to associate with Andree.

“Why?” she repeated. “You said she was nice.” She accented the nice. “If you don’t let me meet her I shall think she isn’t nice at all—and a great many other things.”

“She is nice,” he said, sullenly. “She’s good.... You wouldn’t understa............